


Where I Won't Be Found

by MintChocolateLeaves



Series: Mint's Long-Fics [15]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Multi, Red Ice (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintChocolateLeaves/pseuds/MintChocolateLeaves
Summary: Connor wanted to be a detective, once. Now that he's Lt. Hank Anderson's only lead concerning the death of six red ice dealers, he's got the chance to follow his previous dream.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was talking about this au with my lovely friend Haley a while back, and finally types up the pages of this fic I'd written into my notebook. Also, let it be known: When I say slow burn. I MEAN slow burn. It's gonna take a while.  
> -  
> Uhhh, what to say? The tags say 'drug addiction' in this fic, so if you're not okay with that being referenced, then I'd back out now. Also - the addict in question is Connor. It'll make more sense as we go on, don't worry.  
> -  
> The quote is from Aldous Huxley's 'Brave New World'.  
> Anyway, that's all I have to say, I think. I hope you all enjoy!

_‘Stability was practically assured.’_

 

There’s a scratching coming from the other side of the wall.

From where he’s sat, cross-legged by a door with greying, peeling paint, Connor turns to consider the sound. It’s not overly loud, like a kitten prying at wood, and so it’s not necessarily an urgent sound, but it is pressing enough that he reaches a hand up, fingers curling around the bronze handle.

It’s cold against his skin.

Should he open it? Connor’s never particularly sure whether he should open doors when he’s in situations like this – there’s always a likelihood that someone unpleasant will be stood on the other side, another addict dosed on red ice ready to fight for their next fix. They’ve all been there, at that point, but Connor doesn’t feel up for fighting tonight.

On the other hand, he could open the door and come face to face with someone he’s been wanting to see.

Well… the possibility of that is low. Slim, since the people he wants to see most, don’t want to see _him._ Not anymore, not after –

He swallows the bitterness down. It’s like a sugar pill, the chalky kind that catches in his throat whenever he forgets a glass of water, and so it sticks, stuck in his head until finally he shakes, his head pounding but the thoughts leaving him be for now.

He pulls down the handle before his thoughts will start to swarm again, a hoard of angry hornets, and shuffles as the door opens. He tries to move before it can hit him, but he’s not quick enough and so the wood crashes into his arm anyway. Connor winces.

He’s always been quick to bruise, and this is just another to be added to the collection riddling his body. He wonders if this is what people with tattoos must feel like, because purple splotches are permanently on his skin, like splotchy flowers.

The face that appears is not one he’s seen before, but it’s familiar, similar to so many addicts he’s met before. Male. With a pale, washed out face, gaunt and in need of a shave because he can’t grow stubble evenly. Young – older than Connor, yes, but still young in the scheme of a lifetime. Skinny too.

For a brief moment, Connor wonders whether the man is one of _those._ One of the unlucky addicts, unable to keep down food, constantly plagued with nausea. God, it’s the only think he’s thankful for in this entire fucking mess, that he’s not one of _those,_ because else it wouldn’t be the drug that’ll lead to his eventual death – but the acid churning against an empty stomach.

Connor almost wants to ask. It’s impolite, yes, but red ice has a way of making people more accepting of impoliteness. Still, he swallows the question down, lets it join his bitterness, and searches for a more neutral question instead.

“What do you want?”

His voice is raspy, borne from a dry throat and neglected vocal muscles. His new visitor doesn’t seem to notice, although from the twitches in his fingertips, synapses jittery, screaming for something _more,_ Connor assumes that’s because the man has something more pressing to focus his attentions on.

“Shit dude,” the man says, his voice crackling, “which way is it to the fucking exit? There’s gotta be a way outta here.”

Connor blinks. He takes a moment to process the words, allows himself the feeling of relief that he’s not going to fall back into the feeling of pressure against his knuckles to protect what’s his own. Then, he reaches a hand up and points towards the end of the corridor. The man turns, glances down the hall, before shaking his head.

Locks of greasy hair fall across his forehead, and Connor resists the urge to cringe away.

“I just came from that way,” he says, distressed, pushing the hair back from his eyes. Connor squints. “But the fuckin’ DPD are hanging around downstairs, grabbing any of us that aren’t quick enough to get away.”

He makes it sound like they’re mice, scuttling around trying to avoid being caught by any cats. He shrugs his shoulders, thinks of a way that avoids a mousetrap and realises that the only other exit is the fire escape a few corridors over. He suggests as much.

“Cops are probably watching it.” A sigh, heavy-hearted and long-suffering. “You’re fucking useless at giving any options. I’ll have to find a way out by myself.”

Another shrug and as the addict pushes away from the door frame, Connor pushes the door back to a close, listening to the pattering of footsteps until he’s certain he’s alone once again. Then, when he’s certain, he slides down against the door, palms pressing against his eyelids, trying to simply _think._

His vision goes white, blindingly, pain pounding against his skull, but it’s effective. It leaves him slightly disorientated for a second, but then, he’s awake, more conscious to the world around him.

There’s not a lot to consider, information wise. The police are present, downstairs working their way up to catch the addicts that loiter in this old building, trading cash for highs. If they’re arresting everyone that’s not moving quickly enough, then there must be mass arrests taking place – and there’s a lot of them hanging around in this building.

This is surely a raid, they’ll be sweeping the building with ease, going methodically from one floor to another.

A planned operation.

Meaning that the likelihood of escaping through any conventional exits will be low. Below ten percent even. The police will be waiting to pick up any stragglers that manage to get past those conducting the raid, and they’ll be scanning every exit out of the building.

To most, the logical explanation would simply be to relent, to let the police arrest him and deal with the consequences. Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time Connor’s been caught during a raid, handcuffs digging into his wrists, leaving the skin raw because he’d been fighting back.

But – but… Connor is not most people. He wasn’t raised to be like everyone else and so he’s logical, in an irrational way. He’s been seen to care more about the results and not the process, to view every possibility, to consider the aftermath and go with the option that is most beneficial.

He considers the aftermath of getting caught, lugged down to the precinct and processed again. There’ll be another fine for possession of red ice – there’s a small sachet of the crystals in his jacket pocket and he’s not willing to toss it. Possible sentencing.

Either way, he’ll be placed back into a system that’s only ever been a nuisance. It sounds like a pain.

Getting caught isn’t an option then.

Connor stands. There’s a window at the edge of the room, and he stalks across to it, prying his fingers under the sash of the single-hung window, pulling upwards. The window opens with a groan, and he arches his head outside, glancing around.

There’s no way he’s going to manage a jump from this height, and even then, a quick glance at each end of the alleyway shows that there are police officers on either end of the alley. He can however, see the metal staircase that the fire exit leads out to.

Police officers wait at the bottom, handcuffs at the ready.

It’s only one direction. Connor weighs up his chances of an efficient escape by going up, considers the buildings around them and nods his head. Still not a high probability, but his chances of success are raising ever so slightly.

He pivots, grabs his jacket from where he’d been using it as a pillow, and throws it on. The fabric feels comforting against his skin, and for a moment he allows himself to remember being gifted the clothing.

Then, he remembers where he is, and what he needs to do. He creaks the door open, tip-toes into the hall. He turns, glances to the right and considers the fastest way to the fire escape. Not that he’s really got the time to think things over, since footsteps can be heard on the staircase only metres away from him.

Connor bites his lip.

Now isn’t the time to be quiet. His muscles might hate him for the sudden movement, but he sprints down the corridor, away from the footsteps, slowly making his way towards the fire escape.

A better person would give others a warning, some sort of a chance to escape too, but that only hinders his already low chances of success. Let them be a stepping stone in keeping the raid team’s focus off Connor. Maybe it will cause them discomfort because they’ll be arrested, but for them, it’ll only be temporary.

_(Everything is temporary.)_

It doesn’t take him long to reach the fire escape, and he manages to get there without a soul seeing him, but still it feels like he’s taken too long. There’s no way to see outside of the fire door, glass would only make the door less effective at containing the fire, and Connor grits his teeth in irritation.

Going out without a concrete plan is always nerve-wracking. Still, there’s nothing he can do about it, so he swings the door open, the movement _just_ slow enough that it avoids hitting the railing by the side by a few centimetres. There’s not much to see for a moment as he steps out of the building onto the railing.

Only the metal steps leading up and down, and the building in front of him.

Well, it seems as promising another building as possible, and Connor decides that it’ll be in this direction that he’ll head when he’s high enough. Now, he glances down, makes out the direction of the cops waiting below.

He spots them seconds before they register his presence. One – female, of Asian descent – raises her radio to mutter into the feed. Probably to let the others know that people have started to catch on to the raid on the upper floors, and that they’re making use of the fire exits.

The other, male, dark-skinned, shouts up that he has no where to go. They’re aiming to cut him off, fine, Connor can accept that, but obviously these police officers have no idea what they’re talking about.

Connor isn’t much of the yelling type, so he flashes them a smile, – it seems foreign on his face, almost wrong – adds a wink for good measure, and hopes it’s a message that they can understand. Then, he starts to climb.

He’s fast. Conor knows that he’s fast, it’s not arrogance but experience that leads him to the conclusion. But as soon as he feels the vibrations along the metal staircase below, as soon as he _realises they’re chasing him up to the roof,_ Connor starts to doubt whether he’ll be quick enough.

Will he be quick enough to avoid a chase?

His pride says he is, but Connor knows there is only so much he can rely on pride. The more raw, anxious and beaten side to him says that he isn’t. It questions what the point in running is, if he’s going to get caught anyway.

It’s a defeatist attitude, something that will only leave him as such: Defeated. And either way – even if he were to get caught following a chase… well, being chased has always been thrilling, in a way.

The roof is two floors up, and Connor reaches it in no time at all. It’s a flat, concrete structure, easily traversable. The surrounding building, now that he’s at a height where he can see them, have been built in a similar manner. There won’t be much room for a run-up, but there’s enough that he can gain _some_ momentum.

The neighbouring rooftop is roughly six-foot away, and maybe Connor wouldn’t fancy his chances jumping so far if the rooves where the same sight, but they’re _not._ There’s a slight incline in this one, a small drop between this closed building and the one opposite.

With just enough momentum…

Connor decides the risk is worthwhile.

He heads to the furthest edge, puts all energy into his run-up and jumps.

* * *

Hank is buried in paperwork.

Days like this, where he’s forced to carry out the most mind-dulling work – _reports –_ seem to drag on. They stretch in on themselves, drone on. His working theory is that Fowler wants him to suffer, wants to torture him with all this shit. Who cares about writing perfect reports when he could be out doing something.

A slight thump. Another case-file deposited on his desk, adding to the mound that seems almost ready to bury him. Hank glances at the pile, disorganised, swarming over him, and heaves out a sigh.

There’s no point opening anything new until he’s finished what he’s in the middle of. Maybe if he arrived at work on time, he’d manage to finish things at a proper time, but _fuck that._

Either way, the file will wait. It’s nowhere near high priority – if it were, why would anyone give it to _him_ of all people? – and Hank’s run out of fucks to give. He doesn’t even look up to acknowledge whoever’s deposited the file at his desk, keeps staring at his monitor until the poor bastard gets the message.

They don’t. Remain stood by his desk.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank says now, trying to wave the man away and failing. There’s only really one person who’s willing to wait him out. “I’ll get to it later.”

“Hank,” Captain Jeffrey Fowler says, “you’ll want this one.”

Jeffrey is probably one of the only decent guys in this place. If he had to trust any cop here, it’d be him, and maybe part of that is because they’ve known one another for so long, but also because Jeffrey’s always had his back when he’s needed it. Even if Hank doesn’t particularly want his help.

It’s probably the only reason he finally glances up and looks at the man.

“Right,” Hank says, humouring him. He’s not really wanted any specific cases in years, is only doing his job because it’s _routine,_ but hey – he can at least hear Jeffrey out.

“High profile,” Jeffrey says, as if that’s something Hank gives a fuck about. And then: “Red ice.”

Okay, so maybe the Captain has his attention now. Cases with red ice usually leave Hank with the feeling that someone’s squeezing his gut, and so now, he nods his head. He says, “tell me about it.”

There’s a pause while Jeffrey takes the moment to consider how they’re going to proceed. They’re not in his office, meaning this isn’t going to be a full brief on the case – so the man’s either going to tell Hank to read the goddamned file, or is going offer a small, vague comment on the case that’ll leave Hank wanting to read it himself.

“The red ice task force,” Fowler says after a pause, “are currently processing over thirty users, and are conducting another raid as we speak. With this many in questioning, they’re thinking they might be able to get the name of someone a little higher up than drug dealers in the street.”

Hank watches him for a few seconds.

Red ice is a nasty drug. Some users say it’s a wonder-drug, gives people the high they want. If you want to forget, it lets you forget. If you want energy, it gives energy. But it always takes more than it gives, and sometimes that means lives.

It’s nasty, but it’s not really… their jurisdiction.

They work homicide. And whether they want the case or not, it’s something that should be taken by narcotics.

Hank reaches forward to grab the file anyway – there’s got to be more here, if it’s falling to them – and says, “you mean, they’re hoping the interrogations will lead to at least a few stragglers offering information for reduced sentences?”

Jeffrey nods.

Hank opens the files, reads over the brief on the opening page and pauses. He says, “you didn’t worm this from Narcotics, they had to call in homicide for it?”

Another nod. “We’ve had six deaths in the past three days. All known users. Narcotics sent the red-ice they’d had left behind and found that it was laced with sodium fluoroacetate.”

Hank has no idea what sodium fluoroacetate is, but google has his back, lets him know that it’s a pesticide. He scrolls down to the list of poisoning symptoms, cringes and tears his attention from the screen back to Jeffrey.

He nods his head, “I’ll take it.”

* * *

Connor hits the roof with a thud, bends his knees and lets himself roll. The momentum helps break the impact of concrete jarring his body, makes it feel a little less painful. Still, Connor lets out a groan.

Breaking the impact isn’t the same as ridding himself of it completely, and already his body aches.

“Ugh.” He can’t stop the sound, even as he pushes himself up onto his feet. He shakes out his arms, jumps on the balls of his feet, and tries to shake the tension from his bones, and then, slowly turns to glance back at the roof he’s jumped from.

The police officers are stood watching him, but they’re not making any move to follow his jump. It’s shouldn’t be as surprising really, that they don’t want to risk missing the next rooftop, heading towards the ground below, but it is.

Connor lifts his hand into a small wave, turns, and continues towards the next building. He heads from rooftop to rooftop, until he’s at least a block away, moving almost as if he’s on autopilot. He’s not really registering the movements at all, only feeling the jerks to his body every time he catches himself against gravel.

It’s not until he reaches the end of the street, running out of roof space that he zones back into the situation. He glances around the roof, realises there’s no fire escape down from the roof, and sighs.

He’ll need a more innovative idea.

What is there for him to work with? On one side of the roof, there’s a small alleyway. There’s a dumpster not too far away. It’s empty, only two or three bags inside, although the risk of landing on broken glass would have left that option at a standstill whether it was full or not.

There’s nothing else worth noticing in this alleyway. Connor shakes his head – not a possibility. He’ll have to find a different route, even if it means going back on himself. The next corner of the building seems a better option. It’s an apartment building, and glancing down, he can see there are balconies on the upper floors.

A small drop, but if he doesn’t catch himself the right way, then Connor’s going to break something. Still, it’s seems better than nothing. There’s no lights on that he can see from building on the far left, so he goes under the assumption that the occupants are out.

Not that in the day time a lack of lighting is much of an indicator, but Connor needs to get down some way, so…

This route seems the best.

Slowly, he climbs to the edge of the building, dangling himself from the roof top. For a moment, his arms strain as he lowers himself, trying to lower the gap between Connor and the balcony. Then, his grip loosens, and he drops down.

He lets out a grunt, winces as his body hits the floor, but at least he’s off the roof. Off the roof without having died, he’s still alive, it seems.

[Is that a good thing? Connor isn’t completely sure.]

While he could go one balcony lower, Connor knows that he’d have to fall at an angle off the side. The risk is too much, not something even he’d condone. Briefly, he wonders whether all this effort is worth it. Should he have remained put? What exactly is he trying to avoid? A criminal record? He’s already got one.

There’s no use overanalysing it.

He’ll have to go through the apartment he’s stood at. A quick tug on the door reveals that it’s locked. Although, looking at the make, it’s not much of an issue. It’s only got the one lock, not reinforced with smaller latches. After all, who’s expecting people to try and gain entrance from the top floor?

The lock too, is a cheap one. He’s seen them before, they don’t have a lot of pins inside the lock, there’s not a lot that he needs to adjust to. A simple, makeshift lockpick will do.

There’s a paperclip in his pocket – he always has it to keep the photographs in pocket in one place, less likely to go missing – and for now, it’ll have to do. He straightens the metal out, glad to have one part of the pick ready.

He just needs the other piece. Something thicker than the paperclip, only by a bit. There’s nothing in his pockets that can help, so instead, he looks at the balcony. A small metal wire has been discarded in the corner – a snapped guitar string. It’s thin to be of use.

Unless…

He folds the wire over itself, twisting the two ends around themselves to make the wire thicker. And then, pinching the end, moulding it as best as he can, he nods his head.

Two pieces of wire in his hands, Connor opens the door and slips into the apartment.

* * *

_“What do you mean no one’s talking.”_

Hank wants to slam the door behind Jeffrey, but it’s made of glass and even if it’s reinforced, it only takes one crack before Jeffrey’s temper leads him to kick Hank off the case before it’s even begun.

Jeffrey, equally as frustrated, lifts his hands and practically throws him in the air. “It means exactly that.”

“Over fifty suspects,” Hank continues, exasperated. He shakes his head, “and all we get from anyone is that our dead guys were their dealers?”

Fowler sighs, “the only thing we know now, is that the victims were dealers. A few people managed to get away during the first raid, and maybe they knew something, but right now… we’ve got jack shit.”

It’s frustrating. They need more information – hell, the only information they’ve been given thus far is alarming. Dealers having a hold of toxic merchandise. They don’t even know if they’d managed to sell any of the laced red ice before they’d all died…

“They’re bound to say something eventually,” Hank says, crossing his arms. “How much longer can we hold ‘em for?”

Usually they’d have twenty-four hours to hold their suspects, but there’s not enough staff to keep them here. Not enough workers willing to interrogate. Eventually they’ll have to pick which suspects they should let go, keeping only the ones that could possibly know _something._

Fowler doesn’t offer any words. Probably because Hank knows the answer: _with their level of staff… not as long as either of them would prefer._

“Fucking red ice…”

“There is one guy they think would have some good info,” Jeffrey says after a moment. He wonders why the fuck Jeffrey hadn’t started with that, trust the man to make the case seem like it’s at a low point before they even start.

“Let me fucking interrogate the bas–”

“But he managed to get away from those keeping watch outside.”

If waiting police officers are incapable of catching a single addict running from a building, then Hank’s worried for the future of the DPD.  It must show on his face, because Jeffrey’s quick to explain.

“He seems to have anticipated the police, because he ran up to the roof and started jumping from rooftop to rooftop.” Jeffrey shakes his head. “With the suspects, we showed a sketch of the guy to some of the suspects, and while they didn’t know any names, they did say that they’d seen him with each of the victims a lot of times before.”

Hank says nothing. There’s not much he can do with that, other than hope that scanning the sketch will give them a face.

“So,” he says, eventually when Jeffrey’s stare feels like it’s too much. “He’s either the killer and this is a short fucking case, or he’s got information that could really help us.”

“Exactly.” Jeffrey nods.

“Alright,” he says, standing. “I’m heading down to the interrogation rooms. I don’t trust that these guys don’t know a name. I’m going to get it.”

* * *

Connor collapses onto the sofa as soon as he’s slammed the door behind him.

All in all, a pretty adventurous day, although he’s not certain he wants to repeat it again. He’s done enough today, is ready to lay back and relax. His entire body aches, bruises mottling his skin a dark purple.

“Well,” Connor says, turning over to look at the ceiling. “I won’t be heading to any dens any time soon.”

It’s almost an order to himself.

Dens are always busy, reckless areas to attend. Everyone knows of the area, and so it’s never clear who’s got access to the address. It’s only ever a matter of time until the police find out about them. They’re not places he usually frequents.

But – he’d been running low on red ice, and the dealer that frequents this area is known to trade the drug for information. And Connor, with naturally astute observation skills, is never short of interesting information.

When the man hadn’t arrived, he’d thought to wait – _he always came between the hours of nine to eleven a.m., so he’d deigned to sit and listen out for any signs of him_ – which had led him to almost being arrested.

Never mind. They’ll have to catch up another time, Connor knows that Brooks likes to frequent strip clubs, so he’ll just have to search there soon enough. For now, he’ll close his eyes and shake the memory of today from his head.

He adds it to the box of things best forgotten, closes his eyes, and forces it closed, throws it somewhere hidden so he doesn’t need to face it again. The minute he entertains one, he’ll entertain them all.

Eyes closed, trying to think of nothing, he finds himself paying attention to his body instead. Past the aching, the groans, there’s a niggling feeling in his stomach. It’s like ants crawling beneath his skin and while Connor prays it’ll leave him be, he knows there’s only one way to rid himself of it.

It leaves him restless, and he groans, curls in on himself as the feeling grows. There’s a gnawing against his intestines, the feeling of claws scratching against his stomach lining.

He knows what’s causing this – how couldn’t he? There’s no forgetting the feeling, no matter how much he wishes he could. The only way to force it away, is to indulge in what’s caused it in the first place.

Red ice.

Connor hates it. He hates the people that use it, hates himself for falling into such a bracket, but he can’t leave it behind. He’s tried, but it leaves him empty without it, stuck in a bleak monochrome world where nothing feels worth living, where everything _hurts._

The thing about the drug, is that, the first time it’s used, it shows the user a world where everything is bliss. It shows the world as it _could be_. It shows what it could be like to be free. And freedom… _freedom is addicting._

The feel of it, so tender and soft. The taste electrifying on the tongue. The _warmth._ It bombards the senses until you no longer care about anything but being free. And as soon as you reach point–

Then it stops being about freedom, and more about escaping captivity.

He reaches for his jacket, pulls out the packet inside. Most people smoke it, for quicker effect, but Connor’s taken to crushing the crystals into a powder and snorting it.

He brushes the back of his hand across his nose when he’s done so, rids himself of any powder that’s left behind. It doesn’t take long at all for him to feel the effects. Freedom returns to him, and Connor leans back against the couch, closes his eyes and finally lets himself sleep.

* * *

He only wakes as quickly as he does, because of the knocking. It’s a fervent, urgent sound, and Connor half opens an eye as he wonders whether he should be expecting visitors. No – there’s only so many people who know where he lives, and they’re the ones who don’t want anything to do with him.

More knocking. It’s becoming less of a sound and more a motion of a throbbing headache.

Connor sighs, pushes himself up and glances at the table. There are slight traces of powder on his table, and he wipes it away with his sleeve, before picking up the crystals. Where to put them, where to put them?

The inside of his couch cushions will do. He unzips one, pushes it against the pillow and throws it back into place. Then, he heads to the door. Glancing out the peephole shows two police officers, and automatically, Connor shakes his head.

There’s no pretending he’s not in, not with the lights on. And refusing to answer the door is only going to make him appear suspicious, so the best idea would be to open the door.

Rolling his eyes at the fact that he’s probably escaped the den for no reason now, Connor unlocks the latch, and pulls the door open.

There’s not much he can tell from first glance by looking at the officers, nothing that indicates what they’re like. One’s female, the other male, but they’re not the same pair he’d seen earlier today. The female, hair pulled back in a bun, is either cohering to uniform policy, or is the type that needs things ordered. The man, fingers tapping against his police notebook, is either running off little sleep, or is simply impatient.

They’re probably here to find a way to drag him to the station. A pain for every party involved.

Connor at least hopes they’ll let him grab his jacket before they leave.

“Connor Stern?”

Usually, when faced with his surname, Connor’s expression falters. He never flinches, but blood drains from his cheeks, his emotional responses seem to drain right from him. Still feeling the effects of red ice rushing through his system, however, means that all he does is nod.

“I’m Detective Harris,” the woman says, gaze moving past him and into the shabby apartment behind him. “We’d like the ask a few questions?”

A prelude to arresting him. The police’s version of foreplay before they announce that they’d gonna take him downtown.

“Right,” Connor says, because what else is there to say when faced with the police.

Her partner says, “I’m detective Mulligan. Can we come in?”

He speaks in a gravelly tone, and within an instant, Connor’s mind suggests that he’s a smoker. He drops his gaze to the man’s hands, to the fingertips and finds that his theory is correct by the slight yellowing around his fingernails.

“Sure,” Connor says, since there’s not really a way for him to send them away. He opens the door further, waves them inside. Then, as soon as he’s closed the door behind them, he heads towards the sofa – the one he’d fallen asleep on – and tells them they can sit there.

He wonders whether they’ll be offended to know they’re sitting atop his red ice stash, before wiping the thought from his mind completely.

Connor opts for a partially broken stool, places it on the other side of the table and settles onto it. One of the legs is shorter than the others, and so, for a moment, he wobbles, trying to find a point that feels most comfortable.

“We’ve just got a few questions,” Harris says now, offering some resemblance of a smile. If this were a good cop, bad cop set up, then she’d be the good cop. Except – to Connor, her smile doesn’t look kind. It looks more like a predator baring their teeth.

“Alright. Ask away.”

Mulligan reaches into his pocket, brings out a folded sheet of paper. It’s thick, something pulled from a sketchpad. Connor blinks, tells himself not to think about art and creativity – lest he think of those he’d known, once, - and watches the detective unfold the paper.

Sketched, is a portrait of Connor himself. He doesn’t spend much time looking in mirrors, but he does recognise the gaunt face as his own.

“Our sketch artist drew this for us a few hours ago.” Mulligan starts, passing the sketch to Connor. “It’s the portrait of a man seen fleeing from a drug den over in Ferndale.”

Connor does not say the obvious. That they are looking at him.

“We ran this picture through facial recognition software, and it flagged you up,” Harris says. “Would you say this is an accurate representation of you?”

It is. Anyone with eyes would see that it is, and maybe part of him wants to ask when the detective’s last had their eyes tested, but he doesn’t.  Mainly because he’d wanted to be a police officer once, had taken to researching all the police procedures.

Just because they haven’t stated it to be as such, doesn’t mean this isn’t an interrogation.

“There’s a prominent likeness, yes.” Connor says.

“Have you been to Ferndale recently, Mr Stern?” Harris pushes. And Connor, with a heavy sigh, decides that maybe talking _isn’t_ his best bet. He knows it might seem like it, but so far, these guys only have a sketch to go off. If they were charging him with something, surely, he’d already be in handcuffs.

Mulligan, as if catching on to his defensive approach decides to push harder. He says, “where’d you get them bruises on your hands?”

Connor only realises the bruises on his hands as they’re mentioned. He’d known they would little his arms, and legs, but on his hands? He should have expected them.

“I didn’t even realise I have them,” Connor says, “but I’m prone to bruising pretty easily. Could have got them anywhere.”

They seem to click within seconds that he’s not interested in speaking. Interrogations in homes only ever seem to work with victims or those overwhelmed with guilt, and Connor is neither. He’s just… a bystander who’s happened to be caught in the crossfires.

“I think maybe we should take you to the precinct,” Harris says. She’s got a smaller limit than Connor had thought she would have, or maybe, they simply don’t have the time to wait for him to relent under the pressure of their questions.

What does it mean? They wouldn’t place so much urgency on an addict who had gotten away from a raid, so quickly after the raid… no, they’re probably still processing everyone they caught.

So why bothering coming to him? It must be related to the raid.

Oh, Connor doesn’t have enough information to come to any conclusions. All he knows is that it’s probably because of something serious. And serious, means… he probably shouldn’t say anything else.

So with a single nod, and the request that he grab his jacket before they leave, Connor lets them usher him out of the apartment, and down into the police car.

It’s only as the cars in motion, that he realises, he’s in the exact same position he would have been if he _hadn’t_ have run. Which – _Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - awesome responses from everyone! Thanks so much, I'm glad that you seemed to like part one! And now, we move straight on to chapter two. :3

“They brought the guy in,” Jeffrey says, when he catches sight of Hank again, gesturing for him to get into his office. Hank does, huffing as he closes the door behind him.

He’d made his way down to the interrogation rooms, only for the whole of narcotics to brush him off, telling them they were too busy getting those who know nothing out of the precinct.

Jeffrey points towards the chair at his desk, a silent order for him to sit down. And Hank does, settling against the fabric, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward.

“Good,” Hank says, “give me ten minutes with the fucker, and I’ll get him to give us the info we need–”

“No,” the police Captain says, shaking his head. He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend that he’s going to consider it, firmly telling him no within seconds. “You’re not interrogating the guy. Not yet.”

Well then, what’s the fucking point of telling him they’ve brought the guy into the precinct if he’s not going to be able to do his job? No – not even that, where’s the point in working this case if he’s only going to be placed on the bench before he even gets to play the game?

“Goddammit Jeffrey,” Hank scowls, gritting his teeth. One of his days, he’s going to grind his teeth into dust from just how often he grits his teeth out of frustration for the job. That’ll probably be the day he throws his badge down on Jeffrey’s desk, leaving this shitty precinct behind.

But he’s not at his limit yet, so instead, he’ll settle on complaining. “Why bother passing me this case if you won’t let me work it?”

Jeffrey does his best impression of ‘fed up police Captain’. It’s a look that’s taken him years to perfect, but he has. He’s perfected it so much, that it really does look real, the exasperation rolling off him as he stares at Hank. He does not mention how Hank has only known about this case for a few hours, but he could, and they both know it.

The senior officer is no pushover, but Hank isn’t either.

“This guy could have some crucial information,” Hank continues, crossing his arms, “and you’re benching me?”

“Of course not.” Jeffrey says. He seems… almost genuine. It’s not comforting in the slightest. He leans forward, grabs a document from his desk. “I’m going down myself to interrogate him.”

Hank frowns. Jeffrey doesn’t spend much time working active cases, but rather spends his working hours overlooking all the paperwork, keeping his department in working order. This is higher profile than he’d thought. Enough that Jeffrey’s got his eyes rooted on doing some of the work himself.

“So I’ll–”

Jeffrey doesn’t give him the chance to get the words out. He says, “While I’m doing that, you’ll head out to search his apartment.”

He throws the document across to Hank now, waiting for Hank to scoop it up. It’s a warrant, a fast-tracked warrant from the judge, to search the house of a _Connor Stern._ There’s no information of the guy, not past his name and address, but Hank supposes the apartment will give him all the information he needs.

“You search his home,” Jeffrey says now, “and then, when you’re done, you’ll interrogate Stern. But until then, I’m going to apply pressure and see if I can get him to speak.”

Hank huffs again. Then he stands and readies himself to search the man’s house.

* * *

Connor isn’t a stranger to interrogations.

He’s not so easily intimidated by police stations, because they’re not the worst places to get interrogated. Maybe he’s being subjective though, he knows other people find them horrible, overbearing. But they’ve not seen worse.

No, the worst interrogations he’s been placed under have been at the dinner table. Wrong answers had led to deprivation of any possessions. Confessions of undesirable behaviour had led to walking on eggshells hoping he wouldn’t be replaced.

In comparison, police interrogations are nothing.

He looks around the room while he waits for someone to come talk to him. There’s not much else he can do, not while he’s handcuffed to the table, rooted to stay in one place. It seems a bit excessive, but if they’ve seen him flee once, then surely, it’s only natural for the police to think he’ll try again.

They’re taking their time with him now they have him at the precinct. As limited as they had been for time back at his apartment, they’ve slowed now. Meaning the case is less urgent now, or they’re trying to smoke him out, leave him to his thoughts to worry.

He won’t.

Maybe he thinks a lot, but Connor doesn’t tend to _worry._ Worrying over that he can’t change isn’t effective, and so instead of letting emotions reach into his chest cavity and squeeze, he cages them, locks them away and analyses the situation instead.

Connor’s expression falls into something almost… robotic, void of any expression. It’s a mask he’d been urged to develop as a child, so he’d be capable of focusing more on a task, rather than how he felt about said objective.

Glancing around the room, he analyses. The officers had left him in here, but on the way to this room, they’d passed holding cells. And he’d recognised people there from the dens.

They weren’t left in their own separate rooms, to stew. They’d all been thrown together, to add to their paranoia, to prove just how many people might be offered the same reduced sentence if they talked.

The fact that Connor’s not with them means the charges are different. A more serious case. This isn’t about his likeness for red ice then, this is likely something, much, _much_ worse.

Finally, the door seems to open, creaking open after what feels like a lifetime of waiting. It’s not Mulligan, nor is it Harris. It’s a different man.

Connor knows that the man’s only going to glance him up and down, so he does the same, tries to gain as much information as he can. He’s dark-skinned, wearing a shirt that’s been recently ironed, and is tucked into his trousers.

Used to receiving orders and dressing to play the part? Or used to giving orders? The permanent frown lines etched into his skin suggest the former. He outranks the detective’s from before, that much is clear.

From what Connor remembers on police ranking, there are seven ranks higher than detective. Two he immediately disregards from the list – they’re too high a position to be bothering with case work, would be keeping people in line. That leaves him with five supervisory ranks.

In a department as small as this one, Connor can’t imagine a Colonel or a Major being present. They’re usually present at the main precincts and this one – it’s no where near being the main branch. So, he’s left with three ranks to pick between: Sergeant, Lieutenant and Captain.

There’s not much he can go off here, but his own intuition. He’s an older man, so Connor wants to disregard Sergeant from the possibilities.

“We’ve got some questions for you.” The man says, moving to sit opposite Connor. He moves the chair back, places the case file he’s brought along with him on the table and takes a moment to watch him.

Ah – the waiting game. Connor knows it well.

The chances are fifty-fifty in choosing the right rank, and Connor goes with his gut feeling. This is a man who is used to being in charge, the way he holds his shoulders back, the straight posture… he’s got an authoritarian personality. And in police work… that yields results _and_ promotions.

“Ask away Captain.” Connor says.

* * *

The landlord doesn’t want to budge, doesn’t want to let Hank in to his tenant’s room, but there’s not much he can do when faced with a warrant. He lets out a sigh - a heavy sound that shows just how against this he really is - before crossing his arms.

"Be quick about it," the landlord says, as if he's got some sort of control over the situation. He doesn't. "We don't care much for cops here."

Obviously not. Hank's pretty sure that he'd walked past at least seven criminals on his way up the stairs. He recognises them from previous cases. Ugh, what a fucking pain. Cheap flats like this usually act as a breeding ground for criminals, a society, almost.

He pushes into the apartment, and... he's not sure what he's expecting really, doesn't have much of a preconception on Stern, but he's not expecting his apartment to look like this. It's clean in a way that suggests no one has ever lived in it.

Past the small walkway - the shoes rack is ordered, every shoe in a straight line, without any signs of use - is the man's sitting room. It too, is clean, except for a light dust on the coffee table. Hank leans forward, squats at the table and stares.

Not usual dust - it's red. Red ice that's been crushed.

"So, he's one of those," Hank mutters under his breath. In his experience, there are two types of users. There's the ones who smoke, and the ones who snort it. Those who smoke have easier access, or at least think that they have easier access to the drug. They use more to get the same high as those who snort the drug.

People who snort red ice - well, they either have harder access or they know they're addicts and don't want to pay out quite as much.

What else is there in this room? His gaze glances around and there's a distinct lack of a personal touch. There are no photographs, and no indication in the colouration of the painted walls that there ever has been. Which is telling in itself: Stern doesn't have any strong personal connections.

A loner?

It seems that way.

In the kitchen, empty cupboards and a fridge with a bottle of unopened orange juice, suggests that the man doesn't spend much time in the apartment. Not that Hank hadn't discovered as much, from the state of cleanliness. And in the bedroom - shock horror - the bed is made, there's no photographs and all the man's clothes are folded properly in drawers.

"The fuck is with this guy?" Hank says. He shakes his head. "Does he have some sort of OCD or something?"

He almost doesn't bother with the wardrobe. It's a sliding door, and he shakes his head, expecting to find nothing inside. But then he pulls it open - and hidden inside...

If everything else in his home is ordered, then Hank can only call his wardrobe chaos.

Hank pulls back for a moment and mutters, "what the fuck?"

The back of the wardrobe has essentially been converted from wooden slabs, into one giant whiteboard. The words don't make sense, not in a way that Hank can immediately figure out and so he takes a picture before trying to focus on the centre.

It's like a giant spider diagram, each word promising a story behind it without giving anything away: Peter - audience. There is no moment where Hank suddenly clicks to the stories, and so as soon as he's finished snapping pictures, he closes the wardrobe again.

"Fucking weirdo," Hank mutters.

* * *

The police Captain - introduced very briefly as Jeffrey Fowler - does not seem to expect any answers to his questions. He simply wants to ask them. The pauses between the Captain's questions are too short for him to truly be expecting Connor to talk. He's either trying to wear Connor down, trying to pressure him, or he's waiting for something.

Connor isn't sure yet. But he remains quiet, uses the questions he's being asked to try and figure out why he's here. Information-gathering isn't just about gaining answers, but it's also about considering what questions are being asked in the first place.

Bringing up his whereabouts today, asking where he was during the time of the raid. - It's not so much about knowing where he is, but whether he's the type to lie about his location. They want to learn what he's like when he lies, whether he can keep his composure.

Asking about his history with Red Ice - they police know that he's a user. And they've got access to his police records, that show his previous record with the drug. The fact they want to know about red ice at all though... it must be of importance to the crime they're investigating.

And yet nothing to do with the raid this morning?

"You're trying to figure it out," Fowler says. It's not something Connor is expecting to hear and so now he leans forward, frowning. "Trying to figure out the reason you're here."

"I imagine," Connor says, "that this is the part where you let me know."

He doesn't like that the Captain has caught on, doesn’t like that he’s waiting to see how much Connor can figure out by himself. It leaves his thoughts spiralling, a dizzying combination of confusion and intrigue. There's no wonder how the man reached his status.

"Not yet," Fowler says. Then, after a short pause: "Would you say that you're a controlling person, Mr. Stern?"

Connor's lips thin. The question is designed to be hard hitting, yes, and he wonders for a moment how the Captain has come to the realisation that this question is... that this question will hit quite so close to home. Maybe his detectives had let him know how orderly his home had been, or maybe it's obvious in the way he holds himself, but now the Captain knows.

"Controlling over what?" he asks.

Fowler shrugs. It's a planned motion and as such, it seems fake. Contradictory to the personality that Connor has observed so far. The man says, "Why don't you tell me?"

It's a question he's been asked before. Although by whom, he can't remember. He'd answered defensively in the past, but now, Connor takes a moment to consider it. Surely this is a ploy to rouse him and to add pressure. Why ask questions that Connor won't respond to, when the Captain could be asking questions that will provoke a reaction?

"I suppose you could call me controlling," Connor says, crossing his arms. "But I'd say I'm just... more comfortable with routine."

"And what's your usual routine?"

The man is smart, Connor has to give him that. He's gotten one response, gotten a little more information on Connor's personality and now he's trying to coax him into offering more information. But his usual routine... how does that relate to the drug den? Isn't it too generic to ask for the overall routine he follows?

Unless... his daily routine is the crucial element here. It's probably for the best that he falls quiet again and so he does.

Perhaps Fowler realises that there's no point in continuing this - or maybe this has been a prelude to questions that they all really want to ask - because he looks down at the file he's brought with him and opens it up. He takes a photograph, pushes it across the table.

"This man," - Fowler's fingers tap against the man's face in the photograph - "have you seen him before?"

Connor glances down at him and sees the drug dealer he'd been trying to find earlier today: Brooks. And then, he understands.

A police captain taking control of an interrogation. The detectives from before trying to figure out his whereabouts. Trying to get an understanding of his personality, especially by seeing if he's a controlling person. And now, this photograph.

The probability of Brooks being dead is in the high nineties.

"I think I figured out why I'm here," Connor says now. His gaze remains on the photograph. He doesn't want to look back up and see the suspicious in the Captain's eyes. "You think I killed this man?"

"And how did you figure that out?" Fowler asks. Connor is uncertain now whether the man is genuinely curious, or whether he's trying to catch him making a false jump in logic.

"It has to be a high-profile case for a police captain to take control of the interrogation." Connor begins. "I don't think my previous history has much influence on your decision to question me, so I must be a suspect for something more that drug use."

He glances up. Fowler is watching him closely, although his expression is almost impossible to read into.

"Which crimes would class as high profile? Terrorism and Murder come to mind, although I'd rule out terrorism because there's only one victim and he was only a street drug dealer." Connor taps his fingers against the table. "So, either he's dead, or he's as good as dead."

Fowler nods his head. He clears his throat, takes a moment to process and then says, "So you do know him?"

"I-" To deny it now would only make him look even more suspicious. Police don't just arrest people without any evidence, there must be proof that he and Brooks were acquaintances. "Well yes. He was a drug dealer, I'm an addict. It's only natural that we would know one another."

Another photograph. And then another - Fowler doesn't say anything until there are six photographs staring out at him with men he's conversed with in the past.

"You know all of these men, Mr Stern?" The captain's tone is bland, but there's enough force behind it that Connor is overwhelmed with shivers. Six men dead, and Connor had known them all. He's beginning to understand why he's a fitting suspect.

"Yes."

"Do most addicts have multiple dealers, Mr Stern?" Fowler says, leaning forwards. For a moment, he does not seem like a police captain, but a snake. A large python, constricting him with questions, readying to go in for the kill. Connor doesn't like the unease that curls around his lungs.

"I wouldn't think so," he says, almost breathless. "Most addicts build a rapport with just the one."

"Six men dead," Fowler says, "and you know all of them. Doesn't that sound suspicious?"

It does. It sounds serious enough that he feels goosebumps rise against his skin, the seriousness of such a realisation hitting him at full power. Does he have an alibi for this? Or is he simply going to talk him into a more serious situation... Connor doesn't know.

He can't handle the lack of certainty. Connor needs more information. He can feel his mask starting to crack around the edges, can feel emotion trying to slither past into the emotionless exterior he's trying to keep up.

He's... _scared?_ Of not being able to choose the right action because he doesn't have all the information?

"How long have they been dead?" His voice cracks as he asks. Fowler might not openly acknowledge the strain in his voice, but he notices. He must.

"Well," Fowler says, "I think that's all my questions for a moment."

And almost as quickly as he'd arrive, Fowler pushes back from his seat. He stands, and leaves Connor alone in a room too big to be comforting.

* * *

Jeffrey is sat in his glass office by the time Hank gets back from searching the apartment. He's not typing, or doing any work, he's simply... doing nothing, and it freaks Hank the fuck out, because he hasn't seen the man this worked up over something in a long time.

The man doesn't even look up as Hank enters the room, keeps staring at nothing.

"Uh," Hank isn't entirely sure what to say. "You... okay, Jeffrey?"

"Imagine this is the first time we're meeting," the police captain says. "What would your first thoughts be?"

Is Jeffrey having a fucking midlife crisis? Because Hank - living in his own - is not equipped on helping him talk through it.

"I don't know," Hank says, crossing his arms. He shrugs a shoulder and says, "usually I'd say that you have a stick up your ass, but right now I'd say that you're creeping me the fuck out."

Jeffrey turns to him now. He's frowning. "You're great at your job, but you wouldn't be able to deduce my rank from just looking at me, would you?" Hank shakes his head. "But Stern did. Took him all of ten seconds to figure it out."

Hank assumes that this is the kind of conversation you sit for, so he does. He says, "are you sure that he's not just seen you on the news before? Some people pretend to be smart to get one up on people, you know that."

Jeffrey shakes his head. He says, "it's like you could see him processing the information. It's... Listen, he's smart and he might try to use that against you. Don't let it intimidate you, and you'll easily be able to get through this interrogation."

Hank isn't some newbie at interrogations, he's done enough to have a pretty good grip on the human psyche. For Jeffrey to be telling him this - Stern must have given a hell of a first impression. He says, "You put enough pressure on him, right? What was effective?"

Jeffrey meets his gaze. "He didn't like not having any information. Withhold as much as you can, and I reckon he'll cave pretty quickly."

* * *

Usually, when he's faced with interrogations, Hank will slip into the side room to watch the suspect's body language for a few minutes, to get a general feel for the suspect's personality. But he trusts Fowler's words, trusts the brief the man had given him on Connor Stern, and the knowledge he'd gained from the man's apartment. So instead, he bypasses the side room, heads into the interrogation room instead.

And almost immediately freezes at the sight of Connor Stern.

Because his suspect is... is just a kid. Fuck - Fowler could have at least warned him of this before sending him down here. This kid is the one who lives in that apartment? When he'd stepped foot inside, he'd assumed the owner was middle aged. Thirty at a minimum.

Instead, Stern looks no older than twenty. How the fuck does a kid get wrapped up in addiction and mass murder while still a teenager.

Stern meets his gaze for a second. Then, he breaks eye contact, looks him up and down as if taking in every characteristic Hank has and cataloging them in his brain. He says, "Hello."

Hank moves forward now, making his way towards his seat, ready to start the interrogation. He says, "You guessed Fowler's rank pretty quickly when he came in. Why don't you try the same for me?"

Stern frowns. His lips thin, and he shifts so that his fingers interlock. The kid isn't sure, that much is obvious in the way he's hesitating in speaking to him. Either that, or he doesn't like having the information coaxed out of him. Hank isn't sure yet.

"I don't have enough information." Stern says, shoulders tensing. He's uncomfortable by this: Hank knows how to make him squirm. And which carrot to hang to get the kid's cooperation. "You're not a detective, but you're not a police captain either. You're in-between."

Well, he's not wrong. Hank offers a nod. "I'm a Lieutenant. Hank Anderson. I've got a few questions."

"More questions," Stern sighs, almost dismayed. He seems to think about how he wants to react, and Hank watches as his face goes slack, lacking emotion. Except - no. His lip twitches, not into a smile, but like he wants to frown. A tell. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."

"These six men," Hank opens the file - leaves it open, a carrot dangling, paperwork just in Stern's vision but not close enough for him to read the printed letters - and retrieves the pictures of his victims. He watches the man as he tries to arch his neck to read the file. "You knew them."

"We've already discerned that I knew them, yes."

"That wasn't my question," Hank says, and he leans back against his chair. These chairs are always horrid to sit on, the plastic back always digs into his spine, leaving him uncomfortable for the duration of his interrogations. "My question is - did you kill them?"

The man's lip twitches again. Confusion? Or weariness on answering the question.

"I think even a guilty man would say no." Stern says. He tilts his head, as if he's trying to gain some sort of read on Hank. Hank lets him, stays quiet as he comes to whatever conclusion he needs to. "But you already know that."

"I do."

"I didn't kill them," Stern says. He sounds genuine, although Hank can't truly be certain that this is true. Even if he sounds like he's being truthful, there's still a link between Stern and these victims that he needs to uncover.

Hank leans forward, pushes one of the photographs so that Stern can see them. He says, "how'd you know this guy?"

Stern tilts his head and says, "Rudy. He dealt red ice, and I went to him to get some."

Okay, so maybe Hank is overthinking things, but wouldn't more people say they bought drugs from their dealer. And for a man as careful with his words, Stern doesn't seem like the type to muddle the meanings up.

"The red ice," Hank says, "you didn't buy it from him. You went to him for it."

God, even though he knows that kids take this piece of shit drug, Hank still hates seeing the truth out in the open. Kids taking drugs to escape their crappy teenage years... what's the world coming to? Is Hank one of the only people who doesn't find happiness in crushed crystals?

"I..." Stern glances towards the glass window and for a moment Hank truly believes that the man can see past the mirror, to the room on the other side. "I didn't buy drugs from him, no. He would give me them."

No self-respecting drug dealer would give away their product for free. There must be a catch.

"Why?"

Stern raises an eyebrow. He says, "there are different types of currency Lieutenant. We don't all pay in cash."

Hank's gut twists. If the kid is implying using his body as a way to pay... God, he feels sick at just the thought. The victim - Rudy - had been in his late thirties and the idea of him giving drugs in return for Stern's body... He really hopes the insinuation isn't what he thinks it is.

His expression must have darkened, because Stern opens his mouth in an 'o'-shape before shaking his head. He says. "I didn't give him sexual favours - I gave him information. The same goes for the other five."

Information. So, the kid is some sort of informant? It’s no wonder that he’d known the six men then – trading information means knowing as much as possible. And knowing as much as possible, means knowing people well enough to pry secrets from them.

“What kind of information?” Hank asks.

Maybe Stern doesn’t think of this as a breakthrough in the case but knowing that he deals in information tells Hank a lot. It tells him that he’s smart, knows how to get inside of people’s heads.

It tells him that if Stern didn’t kill the victims, that he can lead them down avenues that can help them find the true killer. But… there will be a catch – with informants, they typically get greedy with their information. They’ll give what they gain a benefit for, and they won’t budge an inch after that.

Stern will only help them, if they give him something for it.

"They were always very interested in knowing about the competition." Stern says. "Wanting to know who sells what, for what price. To whom. And they always wanted to know who was encroaching on their territory."

Hank pauses. He says, "And you gave them this information?"

Stern says, "Yes."

"I imagine that would make people angry, knowing you were giving their information to other people." Hanks says. And he can imagine it now, can imagine the punches aimed to the face, kicks in the gut. He can imagine the bruises and the broken skin, can imagine Stern - just a kid - picking himself up off the floor and continuing on, knowing that information comes at a price, even for the people who hold onto it.

"Sometimes," Stern says, and unconsciously, his fingers spasm, as if he's forcing himself not to lift them up to an old wound.

“Can you give me names of all the people who asked about these six men?” Hank asks, and then: “Excluding these six, since the bastards are dead.”

Stern shakes his head. He falls quiet and makes no indication that he'll respond. Frustrating as it is, Hank can understand why. Talking about the dead without any qualms is alright since there's no consequence. But talking about those that are still alive? People who'll get aggressive if they realise Stern has been talking to the police...

Hank crosses his arms. He has a faint idea in his head. He says, "I have a deal for you. You answer one of my questions, and I'll answer one of yours. Pay information for information. How does that sound?"

Stern purses his lips. Then, slowly, as if he's still uncertain as to Hank's motive, he nods. Maybe that will be his first question? Hank really isn't sure.

"Yes," Stern says. "Alright."

“You can go first,” Hank says, an aim to gain favour, trust, in the suspect.

Stern unclasps his hands and taps a finger against the table. Then, he taps again. Almost as if playing a piano, he falls into a steady rhythm one-two-three, one-two-three, as he thinks of the question he wants to ask.

Then: “Your dog. What’s his name?”

Hank's been in enough interrogations to know how to school his expressions. Outwardly, it probably seems like the question has no effect, is almost as if Stern simply asked him about the fucking weather, or some other meaningless shit that doesn't extend past being small talk. Inwardly though...

Inwardly, he recoils. The question has been designed to capture him off guard, and it works. How the fuck did Stern come to knowing that? All he has, is a person to watch. No possessions to read over, no evidence that he can deduct from. Just body language and Hank's appearance.

"...I call him Sumo." He pauses, and before he can think about the questions he needs to ask for the interrogation, his frowns and says, "how'd you know I have a dog?"

"Animal hair on your jacket." Stern answers. "Not a rabbit, or any other small animal, because they're kept in cages, they wouldn't jump on your jacket.  It was a toss-up between a cat and a dog."

"You guessed."

"A lot of information gathering includes guess work." Stern says. He crosses his arms, "If your torn between two options, you go with one, and the person's reaction will tell you whether your right or wrong."

Of course, people would react by denying something if Stern was wrong, thereby telling him the truth he was searching for. It's interesting, and whenever it's done correctly - well, Stern certainly comes across as creepy. Even if it's just for show.

"I see it's my question again," Stern says. "How long have you and Captain Fowler known one another?"

Since our school days," Hank answers. If Stern's going to try and determine his background from his words, then fine. But he won't trick him into asking how the kid knows what questions to ask. "Who asked for information on those six men?"

Stern frowns. For a moment, he is quiet. And then: "about each man individually? I can't give you all the names, there's too many. But there are three people who asked about all six. I only know the surnames of two, and the alias of the third."

"Give me them." Hank says.

"Ortiz, he's a user. Wanted to know about all the dealers I know, to know who sold red ice for the cheapest." The man continues with his tapping, and Hank almost considers snapping at him to stop it, but he bites his tongue. "There’s Mills - he runs a sex club downtown. He likes staying in the know of who might show up. And then there's this guy, Zlatko. He wanted to make sure they weren't on his territory."

Hank reaches forward, turns over one of the printed reports - they can always reprint - and writes down the names. They'll look into the names later. There's three potential suspects to investigate.

Another question for Stern to ask him. It's going to be something personal, Hank can tell. What's he going to bring up now? The lack of a wedding band around his finger. Or maybe he just looks like the kind of guy who drives a Ford Crown Vic and he wants to know why he bought it. Who the fuck knows?

Which is why, again, he is thrown off guard when Stern asks, "how did they die?"

He can’t mean his - no. Hanks certain that he’s not talking about the family Hank had lost in the car accident. There’s no possible way the kid would know that.

So, he must be thinking about the victims of the case.

“Poison.” Hank says. “We found traces of a pesticide inside their systems.”

Stern nods. There is something disturbing about the lack of emotion on the man’s face - people he’d known are dead, and he’s not responding.

Still, this is an interrogation, and to get emotional would possibly leave Stern worse off. Heck, he’s probably the type who mourns in private.

It’s his turn for another question. He says, “you ever heard rumours about bad strains of Red Ice?”

Stern tilts his head. Hank tries to read his expression, but it's difficult, doesn't show him a thing. If only he had some sort of basis to go off for the man.

"Not of bad strains," Stern says, "but I've seen people with bad reactions to the drugs. But - the Red Ice isn't bad, people could be sharing it and only one has the reaction."

Hank nods.

"Why?" Stern says, throwing his next question. "Are you suspecting people of lacing the drug with something? Like that pesticide that killed these six?"

Hank shuffles, crosses his arms. He considers throwing the fact that this is multiple questions out there but realises that the kid will only grow more defensive if he does. And he can't lie, because something tells him that Stern will just realise that, too. He crosses his arms.

"Not suspecting," Hank says. "Forensics found that their product was laced with pesticide. There's no suspecting at all. Tell me about those bad reactions to the drugs."

Stern takes a moment to think. Hank can see it in the way the kid's gaze flickers up to the right - he's trying to remember, not create false evidence. Fuck, he's a suspect, and yet Hank wants to trust the kid. Because he's barely an adult, he's no older than twenty, probably younger than that.

"Have you seen people with jaundice before?" Stern asks.

Hank nods. He's a police officer, has met alcoholics and drug addicts alike, has seen the way their livers had given up, released bile into their blood streams and turned them yellow, the jaundice a serious sign of liver failure.

"They're usually got that." Stern says. He taps his fingers against the table, and for a moment, something flashes across his expression, a momentary blip in his own control. Hank doesn't have the time to place it - but he can narrow the emotions down. It's either worry, or disgust. Regret, maybe? At not being able to help.

Hank waits, because surely a yellowish tint to their skin and to the whites of their eyes isn't all.

"It's acute." Stern continues. "But usually, liver failure takes months in acute cases. This takes a matter of hits. It's acute in its purest sense. They take Red Ice; their liver starts to fail. Then - they can't eat, there's not enough bile production for digestion, so they slowly waste away from malnutrition, because their bodies vomit the food back up, unable to absorb enough nutrients."

Hank winces.

"It's a horrible way to go," Stern says. "But not many people who get that reaction even know it's a thing until it's too late."

Of course, they don't. Hank, having worked in the narcotics years before, cracking down on the trafficking of the drug, hasn't even heard of it. And he'd made sure to know everything he could about the drug, had learned to look for the signs. These are abnormal side effects.

But, from the nonchalant way Stern is talking about them - regretful yes, but like this is just another fact that he's rattling off, something to be wary of but not to over-analyse - it must be common enough now for a trend to have broken through. And for the trend itself to be noticeable.

"Doesn't sound nice." Hank says, purely because he doesn't really have a response to the reasoning. He takes a moment to write it against the paper. That they need to investigate the untimely deaths of addicts with acute liver disease and see if they can find any links to the pesticides. Maybe a weaker dose... something that kills over a longer time, targeting the endocrine system?

"No." Stern agrees.

Hank wonders what question he will go with now. More about the case? Or a misdirection with his personal life. All he knows, is that it will be perfectly timed to catch him off guard, something that reveals more than just the initial answer he gives.

"Do you think I killed them?" Stern asks. He tilts his head at this, and his expression shifts slightly, from expressionless to something he can't really... place. Curiosity is there, yes, but there's something beneath it, something rawer, something deep and guttural. _Panic._

For a moment, Hank thinks it's a lie. Some sort of ploy that's designed to pull him in, manipulate him into believing that the kid is innocent. But then he notices the sheen to the kid’s skin - not pale, no. But his cheeks had been slightly flushed when Hank had originally sat down, and now they're returning to his usual faint tan.

The kid had been high when they brought him in, body working through a high. He'd not cared about the consequences. Yet now, he's coming down. He's reached the high, and the only way to go now, is down.

"I think," Hank says, "there's not enough evidence right now for me to tell."

This doesn't seem to calm him. Stern blinks. He seems like he's struggling to keep his expression straight, before saying, "I'm not asking about evidence, Lieutenant. I'm thinking about your gut instinct."

Fuck. Now Hank needs to consider it - he doesn't have enough information on either the case or on Stern to come up with some sort of conclusion. He could go either way and be warranted. But if he thinks about it more closely, no, he kind of doesn't think the kid is the type to kill these men.

He doesn't know if Stern has the makings of a killer in him, that's not the part he's wondering about. Not at all - he can't say certain about that.

What he is certain about, is that Stern craves control. And that if he killed someone, he wouldn't then stick around too closely to be placed under police interrogation for said crimes. Being caught in a raid following the murder of the dealer that delivered to that place... No. He doesn't think so.

"I can't say for certain," Hank says, heaving out a sigh. "But no, I don't think you're a killer."

Stern nods. Takes the information in his stride. Right now, Hank imagines he's thinking one of two things. That Hank is either a cop with a good gut instinct, or he's a fool for being swept up by whatever cues he's been laying down for him.

"This Zlatko," Hank says, tapping his pen against the alias he'd written down. "Can you tell us where to find him?"

The kid shakes his head, a firm no. He says, "Zlatko doesn't have a set routine where you can find him. If you want a meeting, it's planned in advance, and he always chooses the place. Or, if you're like me, you wait for him to come to you."

Hank crosses his arms. "How about setting up a meeting for us then?"

"And lose all my credibility?" Stern shakes his head. "Please, I arrant a meeting and the cops show, he'll know I set him up. Next thing, no one will trust a word of the information I'm selling."

Stern frowns. Seems to take a moment to think up his next question. Hank decides that trying to prepare himself so far hasn't worked at all, so he gives up trying and simply waits for whatever's going to come next.

Finally, the man leans backwards and says, "What will you give me if I were to give up that credibility?"

Oh, Hank sees. This isn't the kind of guy who does anything for the benefit of society, simply that for himself. Does he not want to be charged for drug use? Well using drugs isn't a crime, so the kid doesn’t need to worry about that. Buying them? Sure - he could charge him for the intent, but that's not going to get him anywhere.

He can't really cut the kid any deals when there's nothing for him to cut. There's nothing he can give within the specs of the DPD. There's only one way he can work this.

"What do you want?" He asks.

Stern's expression shifts now, and he offers a smile. Not wild, there's nothing predatory within it, simply satisfied to have been asked. As if he already knows what he's asking will be assured.

"I want to work this case."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think with my health being the way it is, and with the hospitalisations, I'd be much less likely to overwork myself by creating multiple aus at a time, but you'd be wrong. Either way, I'm updating THIS au now, and I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Thanks for the brilliant reception to this fic thus far! I hope you enjoy reading!

_"Absolutely not."_

Jeffrey gives him a look that only frustrates Hank more. He crosses his arms, leans back against his desk like he's out of some fucking cop movie, and stares him down.

"I'm not working with a kid, Jeffrey." Hank says. "There's some shit that teenagers don't need to see. Murders? Corpses? That's absolutely going to fuck the kid up. You can't really be thinking about cutting him a deal like this."

To his credit, Jeffrey doesn't really look like he approves either. But he's the fucking Captain, he think about things objectively, weigh them up by their pros and cons, the bastard. Thinking that there's any feasible way to remove emotions from casework.

Jeffrey pauses, leans over to his desk, and opens a case file. He says, "If you're worried about fucking that kid up during this case, don't be. Case file says he's already seen some real nasty shit and pulled through it."

Hank shakes his head and says, "Fine. Then I'm refusing to work with an addict. I can't trust Stern to stay clean for this case, and that would cause a conflict of interest in a case dealing with _poisoned narcotics."_

Shaking his head, Jeffrey says, "I don't think you understand Hank. Stern's put us in a situation where we can't really afford to say no."

Hank grits his teeth.

"If we say no to him, then there's a chance that he'll go on to sell whatever information about this case he's pulled together," Jeffrey continues. "And, we also throw away a resource who knows more about the drug trade in Detroit than most criminals. For the sake of this case, we're going to accept."

"So, the kid knew that we had to say yes?" Hank sighs. "I guess Stern never would have asked if he didn't know we'd say yes."

"I told you he liked being in control. Tell me Hank, do you think someone who's controlling would demand to work a case, if there was any likelihood of being told no?”

 _No,_ Hank thinks, _no he would not._

"Fine," he says instead, when he realises Jeffrey is waiting for a response. "If we don't have a choice, then he works the case. But I'm not happy about this Jeffrey. If the police are working with kids now, then we have a huge problem."

Jeffrey passes him Stern's file.

"I've got to get him to sign some fucking documents," Jeffrey says. "So, read his file and get to know Stern's background. Learn as much about him as you can, because the little shit is sure as hell going to do the same for you."

* * *

_Person investigated:_

Surname: Stern

Forename(s): Connor, Octavian

DOB: 08/15/2019

* * *

Most of the information is bullshit, useless information that Hank doesn't really need to know, but has in his arsenal now, in case it ever comes up. He flicks through the file, scans over previous drug charges, reports from Stern's school years.

If he creates a timeline from school reports, then the drug use began four years ago. When Stern had just turned fifteen. Just a child.

His school had sent safeguarding reports too. Stern had been assaulted, two times aged sixteen, and Hank feels disgust roll in his stomach. He can't read those files, not now, and so he flips them over. He'll come back to them later, he decides.

And then - he stops on an older file. He freezes.

* * *

_On September 18, 2031, at approximately 2112 hours, DPD Officer L. Parsons, received a phone call from Mr. Carl Manfred, regarding Mr. Connor Stern who had not been seen for the past eight days. Mr Manfred's sons were known to Connor, and since none had seen him at school or within the neighbourhood, Mr Manfred requested police presence._

_When Officer L. Parsons arrived at the household, there was no response from any residence. Officer L. Parsons began to leave, when muffled shouting had been heard from inside the household. With safety in question, Officer L. Parson's immediately made his way inside._

_Connor Stern was found in the basement following an investigation of the house._

_Officer L. Parsons took Connor into police custody and social services were informed. A doctor was called to assess Connor's physical health and was ruled to be malnourished. (BMI: 14.4)._

_For Connor's well-being, he was transferred to DMC children's hospital, with Officer L. Parsons as police escort. Request was put in for a social services escort to meet them at the hospital._

* * *

Hank pushes back.

Ah, so it’s like that. The report seems to explain more than any conversation ever could. A vulnerable kid, abused as a child, grown up to become… the man he is now.

He closes the file, understanding more than enough. He doesn’t want to keep reading, not right now – he doesn’t want to know where the story goes next, not when it leads to addiction and information gathering for a criminal underworld.

“I need a drink,” Hank mutters, running a hand through his hair. He’d prefer whiskey, but as he pushes himself up, he knows that he’s going to have to settle for coffee.

* * *

The entire process of signing legal documents takes much too long. Connor feels jittery through the entire process, waiting for Fowler to change his mind, for the Captain to decide to incarcerate him for obstruction of justice of something else along those lines. Until the forms are signed, he lacks the upper hand.

Somehow, it seems like Fowler has yet to be given a memo on this. His shoulders are stiff, as if he believes that Connor has won.

Has he? Maybe it's just the red ice leaving his body that's making him feel paranoid and anxious. He's never completely sure. All he knows is that right now, he wants to have these papers signed. Then - after that, he wants to find a bathroom somewhere that he can–

_"Shit."_

Fowler looks up, and Connor blinks, confused until he realises that he'd spoken out loud. He offers a strained smile, shrugs his shoulder as if to say it's nothing worth worrying over and watches as the man focuses back on the papers. Except, now he can't focus.

He wants to work this case - he really does. But there's going to be no way he can do that while he's fighting shaking hands and a heart rate that feels like his heart is an engine ready to explode. As far as being in control goes, Connor feels very much so overwhelmed.

He schools his expression into something that resembles calmness and hopes it will stick. So, what? It doesn't matter what he's feeling on the inside, so long as he can convince people with his exterior body language that he's fine. If he manages that, then he's halfway there.

"You just sign here," Fowler says, finally. "And then, you're a consultant."

Connor offers a smile. He hopes it doesn't wobble, remains plastered on his face. He takes the pen that Fowler is holding out for him and signs his name with a quick flourish. He stares at it for a moment, smile turning into a frown.

His signature feels wrong. Almost as if the 's' in Stern isn't as smooth as the rest. He knows it's irrational, but he wants to rewrite it. Instead, he passes the pen back to Fowler, offering a smile.

"All signed," Connor says, looking up. "Let's get to work."

* * *

They do not, in fact, send him straight to work. There’s a lot of procedure that they need to explain first. Their drug policy for consultants, for instance - not that Connor really needs that one explained to him, most of it includes the words, don't and the phrase ‘ _if you do, we're really not going to be happy.’_

Then, after he's brought into Fowler's office - a large, rectangular room made entirely of glass, seeming to be more of an office for an egotistical man and not a police captain - he's sat down and explained the main details of the case. Beside him, Lieutenant Anderson sits cross-legged, looking entirely pissed off to be working with him.

Fine. It's not like Connor's going around looking for a friendship from this case.

"I've got a rule," Anderson says beside him, and Connor turns. He still hasn't got a lot of information on the man yet, but he's got enough. He'll investigate him further later, of course, but for now, he goes off basic observations. There's a lot of signs of self-neglect. Unkempt hair, slightly greasy. "One rule for working with this brat."

Brat. Huh, it's not like Connor hasn't heard that one before.

"He's an addict." Anderson says, as if this is something new for them all. Connor shifts in his chair, waits for him to continue. "He shows any signs of using again during this case, and he's off it."

Fowler frowns. It's difficult to determine whether it's because he's going to agree - making it an impossible rule to follow - or whether he's going to disagree based on the impossibility of quitting without rehab.

"Fine," Connor says, crossing his arms. Which angle to play? He'll go with an outright one, he thinks. Something that will show how he's not going to be so easily pushed around. "But the same goes for you Lieutenant."

Anderson stirs. Connor meets his eyes, sees the ferocity, the want to throw a punch in Connor's direction, and meets it with what he hopes, is a blank stare. He hisses, "why you fucking-"

"I'm sorry Lieutenant," Connor says, turning back to Fowler. "But it only makes sense that if you bench me from my addiction, we should only bench you for yours."

"You think you're so fucking smart don't you-"

Connor blinks, taps his fingers against his chair. He decides that for now, he should probably just let the Lieutenant throw out his insults, let him rage and release the frustration he's already pent up towards him. He'll do damage control later, he decides. He'll apologise, blame it on the decline from his high - a social programme that's worked for him in the past.

He's expecting Anderson to be angry, yes. But he's not quite expecting Fowler to grit his teeth. Oh yes, he's probably stuck his finger into a pretty deep wound. A wound that's infecting the precinct around him.

"Stern," Fowler says, forgoing any previous formalities. Connor flinches, hates himself for reacting. "While he's saying it wrong, Hank has a point. The case includes poisoned drugs. You take anything, you're risking your life."

"You can try to throw low blows at me," Anderson says. He's finally finished hissing insults, "But that's not going to change anything. You're already a conflicting interest here, fuck knows how much of a conflict you'll be if you're using."

"That's easily solvable." Connor waves a hand, dismisses the idea almost immediately. "The precinct will regulate my usage."

Fowler blinks. He says, "That's not how this partnership works-"

"Listen," Connor says, and surprisingly, they do. "Either this precinct finds a way to act as a dispensary, making sure I have fixes that are lacking in poison, or, I just go back out onto the streets and risk, I don't know. Dying? It's quite simple really."

"No." Anderson says, "Absolutely not. It's one rule, Stern. No using red ice-"

Connor turns, feels anger rising up in his chest. God, is this man a hypocrite, or just acting obtuse because he can be?  No worries, he'll figure out everything to do with red ice, even if it means breaking the one rule Anderson's going to hold him to the most. Pushing it further will get him nowhere.

"Fine." He lifts his hand, presses it against his mouth and takes a moment to breathe. "I'll figure it out. Any other impossible rules?"

"We'll let you know if we think any others up," Fowler says. He lifts a hand, waves them away, "For now, Hank. Stern. Get the fuck out of my office."

Connor falls quiet. As Anderson pushes himself out of his seat, heading towards the door, he remains rooted in his seat. The Lieutenant reaches the door before he turns, mutters something about how he should hurry the fuck up and leave Fowler to it.

"It's Connor." He says after a moment. His voice is not harsh, but it is firm, a tone he'd learned pretty quickly in life would make sure he'd be heard. "Don't call me Stern. It's Connor."

"Noted." Fowler says. "Connor, get the fuck out of my office."

Connor nods. He follows after Anderson.

* * *

Lieutenant Anderson's desk says a lot about him.

Connor doesn't mean to pry - which is to say, he totally does - but he can't help but notice everything on it. There's a board with inspirational quotes taped across a black background, at least, on first glance they seem inspirational. After a double take, he realises that actually, they're the opposite.

'Shut up and let me work' is written in bold letters, and then, below it, in an italic, blue font: _'Violence is a no in the workplace until you piss me off'._

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Connor tries to sort that information into something he can work with. He knows already that Anderson is... easily irritable. He doesn't want to quite call the man grumpy, it seems almost more than that.

His gaze drifts across the board, towards a clipped newspaper article. Red-ice related, a bust that the lieutenant had headed. It's the only positive thing on the entire board.

Oh, Connor sees. It's not that Anderson is grumpy, or irritable - although, yes, he's both but they're side effects of a mentality, aren't the cause - it's that he's _jaded._ He’s seen enough addicts now, Connor supposes, that he believes he knows them all.

“Sit down,” Anderson says, and Connor does. He sits in the chair opposite Anderson, on the other end of the desk – on the _wrong end of the desk_ – and tries to peer over. How is he supposed to do any investigative work from this side of the desk? “And let me do my job.”

Connor purses his lips. He says, “We’re meant to be working together Lieutenant–”

Anderson glares at him from over the monitor. He shakes his head, jerks a finger out as his points and says, “I’m not gonna give you shit about how I work alone, because I don’t exactly think you’ll give a fuck. But listen here, I know what I’m doing, and I know people. You’re just some kid who wants to play detective.”

“I’m the best lead you have, Lieutena–”

“That.” Anderson says, “Is all you are Connor. You’re a lead, a thread in this that we will pull on to see if anything topples over. But you’re not a fucking police detective and forcing yourself onto this case won’t make you one. So, sit there, and wait while I search the database for information.”

Connor taps his fingers against his leg and tries to do as he says.

He lasts all of four minutes before his body pushes him up from the chair and he decides that if he can’t work with such a blasé Lieutenant then he might as well learn more about the police station as a whole.

Anderson looks up as he stands, a scowl etched into his face. Connor is beginning to believe that this is just his usual expression, one filled with bitterness. “And where do you think you’re going, Princess?”

Connor decides to let his expression morph into a blank canvas, something that Anderson can read however he damn pleases. He doesn’t want to act on the irritation that’s flaring up inside of him, knows that it’s not _him_ but a lack of chemicals in his brain simply making him feel angry when he’s not.

He’s not angry. Connor has never been an angry person. _He’s not._

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says. At the doubtful look Anderson sends his way, a suspicious squint of his eyes, Connor adds. “To use the bathroom, not to get high. Jeez, you really think I’d be stupid enough to bring drugs to a _police station._ ”

Anderson pauses. Thinks it over and then after pointing down to the right, he says, “they’re down there. If you take any longer than five minutes, I’ll–”

Connor waves him off. Shrugs his shoulders and mutters about how he gets the idea, don’t worry, he’s not an idiot who thinks he can get high in the police bathrooms.

He leaves Anderson’s desk behind, turns right, and heads down the corridor, towards the bathrooms, only to pause halfway in his walk. To get to the bathroom, he has to walk past holding cells.

And the holding cells are full. Filled with both people he’s met before, and those he hasn’t. Connor bites his tongue, decides that there’s no way Anderson would let him have any access for a conversation with them, and steps forward instead.

“Connor,” someone says, and it leads to more people noticing him, milling forwards to wonder why the information broker is stood in the police station on the opposite side to them. “Connor, what’re you doing here?”

Connor considers his options. He could ignore them, give them no information at all and keep his word to Anderson. But then he’s lacking in information and what good is an information broker if he’s got nothing to offer, nothing to trade away. The other option, giving a full explanation is also not acceptable. If he does, admits how he’s working with the police, no one will trust his word ever again.

So, he’s left with the final choice: Lying. And to lie, he needs to act, and so Connor does. Maybe he’s used to going blank around law enforcement, letting no emotions show, but these are _addicts, criminals,_ and they’re not as well versed at reading into body language and expressions as the police are.

Connor loosens his shoulders, turns to face them properly and offers a smirk. He says, “You guys aren’t in the best position right now, are you?”

They’re not. They all know it, and with their highs wearing off, they’re bound to be feeling paranoia, regret, _worry._ There is enough negativity within the cells that if he gives them enough information, speaks the right amount of words, he’s going to be capable of getting each individual to spill everything they might know. And some faux promises too, there’s no point asking for something if they think they’ll get nothing in return.

“I heard from a little bird,” Connor says now, glancing at each of the addicts in turn, “that you guys had been caught at some raid. The police are fond of doing those you know, they’re always trying to catch people using, ready to treat users like dogs. This here, is your kennel.”

They frown, open their mouths.

“But don’t worry,” Connor continues, letting his smirk widen, “I’ve also heard it from a little bird that they made an error with the raid, something about processing that they haven’t done correctly.”

“What is it?” One of them asks, and then another, begging, “I can’t be charged again man, I can’t let my probation officer–”

“Hey,” Connor says, turning now as if to make sure no one is watching them. There’s no one there, and so he leans closer to the holding cells. “Leave it to me, and I’ll get you all – _all of you –_ off without any major charges. All I want in return, is information.”

Confusion. Why is he always met with confusion?

Connor shrugs his shoulders, “Let’s call it a favour for a favour. I’ll get you guys out of here with, at most, a minor charge. And if I manage it, you guys drop me a line, give me something juicy to tear into. You can give each other my number.”

He offers a short wave, turns just in time to see a police officer - recognisable, from the desk beside Anderson's - walking down the hallway and heads back the way he came before the man can start asking any questions.

* * *

“What the _fuck_ do you think you were doing?”

Hank’s pissed. He’s not even been in charge of dealing with Connor for an hour yet, and already the kid is causing him issues. Fucking addicts, he despises them. Especially the ones who but their noses into his case without understanding proper procedure.

And the worst part? The kid doesn’t even look regretful for encroaching upon his case, talking to suspects without the correct layout for an interrogation. Not that Hank would have trusted him inside a room by himself but _still._

“I was simply conversing with acquaintances, Lieutenant.” Connor says, like the smug little bastard that he is. “There’s nothing illegal with talking to people, is there?”

Hank glowers.

Connor refuses to back down. He crosses his arms, stares back without the slightest hint of apology and says, “In two minutes of talking to them, I got more from them, then I bet the police would have in the hours you’ve been here.”

There’s no way of having this conversation without causing any further irritations, so Hank simply leans back against his chair and tries to focus on his computer screen. So far, he’s been trying to create baseline files for the men that Connor has told him about, pulling up all the information he can.

He’s gotten some on two of the men that Connor has told him about – Ortiz and Mills – but so far, there’s nothing on Zlatko. He shakes his head, and then, because Connor is still staring at him from the other side of the desk, he looks back up.

“What did they say.” Hank huffs.

“Nothing yet,” Connor says. “Which is the same you guys have gotten. But when they get out of here, as I said they would, then they’ll be sending me messages pretty quickly.”

Hank lifts a hand to his face, resists the urge to facepalm. What a fucking joke. He’s got nothing but is far too up himself to actually see that he’s got nada. Zilch. Zero.

Right now, he’s just a kid running off fumes of red ice, trying to ride out what’s already leaving him behind.

“You made promises you _can’t keep,”_ Hank says, blinking across at him, “on the assumption that addicts, simple acquaintances will give you some sort of fucking information. Through fucking texts?”

Connor shuffles in his chair. He leans forward, pokes a finger against Hank’s desk with a heavy tap and says, “With this many addicts needing processing, and the holding cells practically _full,_ you’re not going to be keeping them for very long. Most will be out before the afternoon shift ends. I didn’t promise them anything, I just made them _think_ I had.”

Manipulation tactics. Hank’s no stranger to them, has used them many times himself, but there’s something about them that always makes him feel cold. Apathetic.

“Manipulating them.” Hank shakes his head. “You really think they’ll send you the information because of a few words?”

“No Lieutenant,” Connor says. He shakes his head. “They’ll send me information because when they’re leaving here in an hour or two, they’ll believe I’m the one who made it happen. Please, keep up.”

Hank gives him the finger, tells him to fuck off and keep watch of his phone, since it’s all he’s really good for. Then, he looks back at his monitor, compiles the information into a single file and presses print.

The drone of the printer gives some sort of background noise but it does little to quieten the noise in Hank’s head. The little brat… Doesn’t he see the situation he’s in?

Or maybe Connor can see the situation clearer than Hank can. Maybe he knows something an old man doesn’t.

“This Zlatko,” Hank says finally, turning to face the kid. “I can’t find shit on him.”

“Of course you can’t,” Connor says. He lets out a sigh, “As I said before, it’s an alias. I could offer a description of him if you called a sketch artist, but there’s not much more I can offer you without arranging a meeting.”

Fuck – how could he have forgotten about sketch artists? Maybe because he hasn’t spent too much time working with them recently. The murders he’s come across to date have always been clean cut, easy to solve: They’re usually committed by someone close to the victim, a spouse, a family member.

It’s been a while since he’s needed to rely on witness testimonies, since he’s needed to worry about trying to place a face.

“If I’m angry enough on the phone,” Hank says, “I can get one down within the hour.”

Connor snorts. He says, “Think you can get angry enough to make it half an hour?”

Little shit. Hank wants to grin in spite of himself. He doesn’t. Instead, he forces his expression into a frown and says, “If you keep talking, there’s no doubt.”

* * *

The sketch artist makes Connor nervous.

The Lieutenant refuses to move them to a side room, and so, Connor sits by Anderson’s desk, offering a description of Zlatko’s likeness while hoping that none of the addicts leave before the artist can.

Is he impatient with the entire process? Maybe. But that’s only because he knows that there’s good information to be found, and he doesn’t want to miss out on the opportunity because Anderson is being obtuse.

“Is this him?” The artist asks, and Connor resists the urge to grit his teeth and say no, the beard is different, not as long as it’s been drawn, because really, who has a beard that long, it makes him look like an _ape._

“The beard is shorter,” Connor tries for civility, mainly because he’s already going to be disliked in a precinct such like this and is probably already viewed as unreasonable. Even with his attempts, irritation still bleeds through. He taps his hand against his knee.

“Right,” the artist continues. She grabs her eraser, waits until Connor taps just where Zlatko’s beard falls to, and then erases it further. “How’s this?”

“I said that he slicks his hair back, why is there hair by his _forehea-”_

“Fucking hell Connor,” Anderson says finally. He’s stacking paper into new police documents, looking for addresses apparently. Each time Connor’s offered to give Ortiz’s temporary addresses, regular haunts, the Lieutenant has scowled. “You’re trying to get a general likeness for the man, not recreate his fucking wedding photos.”

“Zlatko isn’t married.” Connor says, finally.

“Yeah, I bet you’d have links to the wedding pictures if he did,” Anderson says. He sighs, exasperated. “Does it look like this Zlatko guy or not?”

Connor sinks in his chair, rolls his eyes and accepts that it could, in some manner, be a sketch of Zlatko, even if it not, completely Zlatko himself.

“Okay,” Anderson says finally, “we’ll photocopy the sketch and then see what we can do about adding a name to the face. Until then, shut up, sit still and watch your phone for any information.”

Just about now, with his leg jiggling, bouncing against the floor, the endless tapping of his fingers, Connor thinks it’s impossible to sit _still._ He shakes his head, stands and says, “I need to walk about or something.”

Anderson sends him a sharp look. He says, “if you head back in the direction of those fucking interrogation rooms.”

“Coffee,” Connor says. “I just need some caffeine of something. Is that alright with you, _Lieutenant?”_

Lieutenant Anderson looks as if he wants to say something about it but grits his teeth and decides against it. Instead, he waves his hand towards the kitchen, mutters about how Connor can go wild, since it’ll get him out of Anderson’s hair for long enough.

Connor turns, and before the offer can be rescinded, heads towards the kitchenette. It’s seems pretty empty, but he supposes that’s because everyone is working, is because most officers don’t lounge in the kitchen and take their coffee back to their desks to keep working.

Still, it means that Connor’s free to make coffee without feeling any heavy gazes leering at him, burning through his shoulders. He grabs a coffee cup – a department cup, not any personalised one, that way no one can accuse him of stealing – and pours coffee into his cup.

There’s nothing left but dribbles of coffee by the time he’s poured it out, and since Connor isn’t a complete _heathen,_ he prepares a new pot. Then, he takes a sip of his own.

It’s bitter against his tongue and does nothing to lessen the shaking of his hands, but it’s something to focus on. He takes another sip, watches the precinct in action. He’s lucky he’s finally gotten up, away from Anderson’s desk, because now he can see the first of the addicts being pulled back towards desks.

He makes eye contact with one, offers a smile and lifts his cup up in salute. He’s offered a grin when the man makes his way towards the exit. To another, he waves his phone, a subtle reminder for the price of his ‘favour’.

There are enough people leaving the precinct, collecting their possessions, that Connor quickly grows tired of offering small smiles, as if everything has gone according to his plan. Eventually, he leans against the wall, stares out and while keeping a smirk present – he can’t drop the act, not when he knows whether people are there – he lets his attention waver.

He swallows down the rest of his coffee. It’s strong enough that he has to swallow down revulsion. He’s not even a fan of coffee, not really, but it’s caffeine and it’s a way of making sure he isn’t dehydrated.

Past the addicts – they’re easy to spot – there are witnesses. Civilian’s who’ve been brought into the station for testimonies. This place is so outside of their norm, that Connor realises that they’re probably traumatised for being there. Shocked from naïve beliefs that nothing will ever happen to this.

Whether it be small things like a theft, or something bigger, something… worse. Murder, abuse, the report of someone going missing. All things they don’t deserve.

Most of the people sat at desks are alone, nervously recounting their experiences. But at the edge of the room, far enough that he can’t see the direct details – a woman and her child.

Connor moves before he can fully register the movement in his house. For a moment, all he can see is hair dyed blonde, a little girl with brown hair. _Family._

“Kara–”

He steps forward, the words running dry in his throat. For a moment he watches the pair, readies to head over, an awkward hello but a greeting all the same. He swallows, goes to step forward.

A hand settles on his shoulder.

“Connor?” The voice is quiet, low. Not one that he recognises the sound of. “Connor Stern?”

He turns now, only for a second, before looking back towards the mother and child. It’s as if the hand on his shoulder has pulled him out of some trance, because looking at them now, he realises they’re completely different. Kara’s hair is a different shade of blonde, or had been, at least, when they’d last seen one another.

Connor turns, faces the man holding his shoulder. After a moment, he says, “That’s me.”

The stranger offers him a smile, lowers his hand from Connor’s shoulder. He’s mixed race, with smidgens of green paint on his cheek. Connor considers telling him about it, considers how it could be classed as rude and decides against it.

“Small world,” he says. He smiles, wide, and says, “It’s me, Markus. Markus Manfred. We used to be–”

Connor doesn’t mean to cut him off, but he does. “Neighbours. We used to be neighbours.”

He remembers Markus, of course he does. He and his older brother, Leo, had been some of his closest friends when he’d been a child, were always eager to invite him into a backyard filled with toys and swing sets and a little wooden treehouse where Markus had tried to teach him how to paint.

The brothers had been a breath of fresh air for him, but the relationship had been… temporary.

_Everything ends eventually. So, had this._

Markus is smiling at him, wide, in that infectious way he had when they were children, and Connor, despite feeling worn down, despite cravings niggling in the back of his head leaving his hands shaking, finds that his lips curl upwards in response. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Connor ignores it.

“Markus,” Connor says, “it’s been a while.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had fun with this one. I enjoy writing a lot of dynamics.
> 
> Also, wow! Everyone is so kind with how you're responding to this fic! Thanks for being amazing and I hope you enjoy the update! The investigation officially begins!

It feels almost like he's got thousands of words lodged in his throat that have belonged to Markus for years. He'd been swallowing them down throughout his teens for too long, and now, Connor feels like they're working their way up, ready to bubble over.

Instead, he shoves them further down, gestures to the kitchenette and says, "You want some coffee or something?"

Markus purses his lips, and Connor blinks. Oh, he looks vaguely uncomfortable? Is it because he wants to leave the conversation? No. His body language is open, the man wants to talk, and he'd been smiling beforehand. So, it must be the question. Not a coffee drinker? Hadn't his father, Carl, been much more of a tea drinker?

"We've got tea as well," Connor says, because he vaguely recalls seeing a box filled with tea bags. Herbal. "Camomile, I think. If you'd prefer?"

Markus' lips soften, and he's smiling again. He nods his head faintly, says, "Sure. I mean, if that's okay, I don't know if I'll be able to finish it though, I've... got to pick someone up."

What are the chances that they're from the raid? At least fifty percent, Connor thinks. No, he tells himself, stop analysing him, Markus had been a friend once, he probably doesn't want him psychoanalysing and theorising about his entire life. It's not like he's information to be sold.

"Oh," Connor says, and decides not to push it further. He waves Markus to follow after him, grabs a paper cup instead. No mugs, not if Markus has to leave soon. "Well, think of this tea as something you can take away."

His hand trembles as he pours, and he hopes, for the love of all things holy, that Markus doesn't notice.

He tries to tense his hands, his arm, every part of him, in a way that will leave his body less shaken. It's a damn reflex, but as long as he stays focused on it, he can manage to stop the shaking, if only minutely. He swirls the tea with a spoon, deposits the teabag into the bin with a wet thud, and passes the cup to Markus.

"Thanks," Markus says, and then, after a few seconds, "So what are you up to these days Connor? College? You always were the smartest of us."

Connor pours his own coffee, decides that he needs to come up with an entire game plan in the span of a few seconds. He buys himself time by sipping at a new cup of coffee. He's no stranger to lying, but if he leaves too many threads then that means Markus has more to pull on.

"No college at the moment," Connor says, offering a smile. He tries to ignore the raised eyebrow he receives and says, "It's... very expensive and I didn't want to take out a huge loan. So, I'm just doing some odd jobs and waiting for when I'm legally old enough to join the police academy."

Markus nods. He says, "You always did want to be a police detective, didn't you?"

He had. Back when they'd played games of cops and robbers, Connor had always been the one with the fake badge. He'd wanted to solve puzzles, understand people, and detective had helped him do that more than being a robber had. Now an informant... It feels as if he's gotten what he's wanted, but by blurring the lines.

"Yeah..." He trails off, sips at more coffee and then: "How about you Markus. I assume most of the time you're far away from this place, enjoying some hobby or another. Still painting?"

Markus dips his head into a nod, says, "I'm an art student now. There's no throwing away a hobby like painting, I think. As soon as you get lost in the colours, there's no coming back from that."

It sounds, almost, like addiction. Connor feels his stomach turn. He smiles despite it.

"Your dad must be proud," Connor says.

Reaching up and rubbing at his arm, Markus offers a small laugh. Huffed laughter, as if remembering some story that Connor will never get to hear. He wants to hear it, he wants to know all the stories he missed out on when he'd left the neighbourhood behind. If there had been anything worth staying with Amanda for, it had been the Manfred family.

"He is," Markus says. "He keeps talking about setting me up with a gallery viewing or something but - I just want him to slow down on all of that. I want to get through college before I do anything like that, I think."

Connor sips at his coffee, tries to consider what it would be like, being in college and taking things in stride because there was always a way to better himself, one way or another. It seems... odd. He's caught up in it, that for a moment, he settles into a comfortable silence.

He wonders what Markus paints.

"What're you... doing here, Connor?" Markus finally asks. Connor blinks, looks at him. "Are you picking someone up too?"

Fuck.

Connor can't say that he's picking someone up, because what if Markus enquires about that friend, or even worse, what if he decides to wait because they're headed out to the same fake place he’s come up with. Of course, there's the truth, but he can't admit _that._

And he can't exactly say he's working here, because he's stood in a hoodie, probably looking pale enough to be an omen of death _, or something_ , and he'd openly said he's waiting to enter the police academy. His phone buzzes in his pocket, adding to the symphony of buzzes he's already felt so far.

It seems most people are grateful to have had his help. He almost wishes they weren't because now it's distracting.

Partial truth, Connor decides. He says, "I'm helping on a case. Consultant, you know. It's for work experience, gotta get my way into the academy somehow, you know?"

Markus gives him a look that says he isn't sure how to take this knowledge. Connor blinks, offers his most charming grin and hopes it goes over well. He seems to look Connor up and down - should he be worried, Connor feels a little residual worry swimming around his chest - before asking, "work experience?"

"Yeah," Connor says. "You know how future medical students can shadow doctors or nurses for a day, to gain the experience... It's... like that?"

He doesn't look like he believes him. Markus hesitates for a moment, and Connor, nervous, takes a moment to glance at his phone. It's still buzzing, and he unlocks it, pressing into his messages, scrolling through the main page, the small summary that his phone offers for any names of interest.

Most of it is interesting, but nothing that's of relation to the case. At least, nothing that he can think of, not yet. But wait - there.

_Ortiz. No one's seen him sin-_

“Sorry," Connor says, pushing his phone back into his pocket. "That was rude of me - I shouldn't have..."

Markus waves a hand, equally nervous now. He says, "No, it's okay, you must have gotten tired of the buzzing. You must be really popular."

"Something like that," Connor says. And then, "Do you want to catch up some time? When we're not, uh, both stood in a police station?"

Reaching into his own pocket to pull out his phone, Markus offers another smile. It's gentle, soft, so unlike what Connor is used to that for a moment he wants to just, take a picture of it. It's unusual, something he's spend all his time looking at, if he could.

"Sure thing Connor," Markus says, and then, Connor is inputting his number. "I'll uh - should I input my number into yours, I wouldn't want it to get lost in all those messages."

Connor pauses. The messages are still holding up, they're like liquid, words flowing into his phone like a river, rather than coming into his inbox in steady showers of rain. If he passes Markus his phone, and someone mentions anything... questionable... as information then... what does he do?

He forces himself to quit worrying. Opens up a new contact, types in Markus' name and glances up at the man. After a few seconds of quiet, he passes his phone over, begs that nothing horrible shows up. He says, "here."

If Markus notices his hesitation, he's gracious enough not to mention it. He simply types his number into the phone, presses _'save contact'_ and passes it back. Then, he says, "all done."

"Thanks," Connor says. He pockets his phone again, text messages be damned. "We'll have to go out for coffee - well, uh, tea, I guess, sometime, and properly catch up?"

By then, Connor will have been able to figure things out completely. He'll have a good enough story, closely knitted to avoid any loose threads, and it will be enough that he can have a conversation with Markus without making the other man doubt him.

"Sure," Markus says. And then, after a few seconds of silence, brows knitted together in concern, lips pursed, "Connor, are you oka-"

"Connor." Anderson's voice, deep and gruff from across the room. Loud enough that he's not yelling, but enough that it carries to Connor's ears. He's not sure whether he's angry to have been interrupted, or grateful that now he's got a way to leave before he can construe a proper story. "We're heading out."

_They're heading out._ Good. He's vaguely shocked that Anderson hasn't left without him.

For a moment, he scans the precinct. There's one addict sat at the desk, being processed, but he doesn't look up at the sound of Connor's name. He's not instantly recognisable either, not one that Connor's had business with before, so he'll probably be just another worker.

"Coming Lieutenant," Connor calls back. And then, turning back to Markus. "I'm sorry, I've got to head out now. But uh - what was that question?"

"It was nothing, really." Markus says, waving the question away with his hand. Then, raising an eyebrow, "Work experience?"

Connor nods his head. For the best part, while Markus still seems to disbelieve him, he doesn't seem to mistrust him. It seems more like he's confused that there's a system for work experience within the police station. He says, "Yeah. Work experience..."

Now, Markus lets out a laugh. He shakes his head, waves a hand and says, “Okay then. I’d hate to keep you from that. We’ll catch up soon.”

“Away from the police station, hopefully.” Connor says, around a smile.

Turning, he heads in the direction of Anderson, standing stiffly by the man’s desk. The Lieutenant lifts the files he’s been holding, practically slaps them into Connor’s chest. Connor reaches up, grapples for the files before paper can spill out around them.

“These aren’t the full files, but it’s what I can show you with your CI access,” Anderson says. “No selling what’s in those files.”

Connor scowls. Then, because there’s no point snapping back, lowering himself to the Lieutenant’s level, Connor rolls his eyes and opens the top file. On it, is Mills’ information. It’s all information he already knows, mostly anyway. He skims it, not fully reading, and then flips to the next. Ortiz. He pauses.

“The address for Ortiz is wrong,” Connor says, finally. Then, recalling the text. “But I know where to go looking for him, he’s got a hideout. I think we should go there first.”

“We’re going to talk to Mills first,” Anderson says, as if he’s simply trying to be difficult. He crosses his arms. In response, Connor rolls his eyes, makes a conscious effort not to grit his teeth. "All sort of stuff comes in and out of a sex club. Who knows what information we can get from the man."

No. That doesn't seem right. There should be a distinct order to these things, to these searches, and... and Mills isn't the highest on the list. They need to find Ortiz, that's what Connor's gut is telling him. He purses his lips, tries to think of a way to turn things around.

"Ortiz hasn't been seen in days," Connor says. "There's a rumour that something bad had happened to him."

Anderson turns to him. For a moment his eyes flash dangerously, like fire, anger swimming inside his pupils. Connor wonders if he hates all criminals, or if it's just the addicts in particular. Or even - maybe it's just the disobedient ones, the ones who aren't easily intimidated that the Lieutenant is intimidated by.

"What are you trying to say, Connor?" He asks.

"I'm just theorising here," Connor says. His tone is dry. "But maybe we should look into the missing man who wanted to know about the dealers? Either he's involved or he's dead. Both options are good leads."

"There's something very fucking wrong with you Connor," Anderson says.

Connor shrugs. He says, "Mills doesn't use red ice, so he's not going to die on us. But Ortiz might. But hey, if you feel it's an okay risk to take, lets go to the sex club–”

"You can cut that shit out right away," Anderson says, raising a finger. He pushes it into Connor's chest, violent, strong enough that Connor's not entirely sure whether it'll leave a bruise or not. "I'm not some fucking guinea pig for you to toy around with to get your own way."

Connor raises an eyebrow, widens his eyes to seem as innocent as possible. He says, "Guinea pigs don't actually make very good lab animals Lieutenant, you're more like a r-"

The lieutenant's fingers twitch. He says, "Finish that sentence Connor, I fucking _dare you."_

Connor, well trained in reading people, decides that now is not the time to push. Instead, he holds the files closer to his chest, shrugs and says, "I think you got the idea."

"Yeah," Anderson says, "I got the fucking idea alright. Who'd have thought the informant would be so fucking obvious when manipulating someone. You're really fucking bad at this shit, Connor."

On the contrary. Connor hates how comfortable he is sometimes, with skewing people around to getting his own way, but he has to admit there's some sort of skill involved. Lieutenant Anderson is on guard around him, so there's no way he'll be able to manipulate the man. At least, not right now.

Being obvious with his wants, and his arguments, is the only way he can actually get the outcome he's after.

"Police are a bit different to criminals Lieutenant," Connor says. "Maybe it's just difficult manipulating you."

Anderson huffs. Then, he says, "Tell me about Ortiz's disappearance. We'll weigh our options based on what you can tell me."

Connor sighs, flicks back over Ortiz’s file and says, “The text I got was very simple. He’s not been seen in a week. He’s gone underground before – bouts of paranoia, you know, a common side effect of using – but never for any longer than a day or two.”

He receives a raised eyebrow, some element of doubt. Anderson says, “That’s all?”

“You need something more concrete then that?” Connor asks. He squints, “I know the police works under the premise of needing concrete proof to make arrests, but we’re just deciding on which of the two to question first.”

Anderson pauses, waiting. He says, “If he’s gone underground, what makes you think you can even find him?”

“A while back I was curious,” Connor says, “about where he was going and what he was doing there. So, I followed him to this little hideout he has.”

He is greeted with an expression that it less than amused. If anything, the Lieutenant’s voice is dry as he asks, “You followed a paranoid man, to the one place he felt he was safe from prying eyes?”

When he says it like that, it almost makes Connor feel like a bad person. He shrugs his shoulders, says, “Does that really matter right now? If it’s useful, why does it matter why I did it. We want to question him, right?”

Anderson nods. He says, “Fine. We’ll question Ortiz first.”

Or get a coroner for him. Connor doesn’t know why he’s got a sick feeling lingering in his chest, but… but he’s pretty sure that Ortiz is dead. And to think – he hadn’t even noticed the man had been missing for so long. He should have noticed- Ortiz is a social man. As horrible and quick to anger as he'd been, he'd fed off of the attention of others.

How long would it have taken for him to catch on?

“Good,” Connor says. And then, a little quieter: “Thank you.”

If the Lieutenant hears him, he doesn’t say anything. Connor’s thankful for that, too.

* * *

 

The kid is pretty quiet as they leave the precinct.

There’s only really one time he speaks up after getting Hank to change his mind, to head to Ortiz instead of some shady fucking sex club owner, and even then, it’s not even to talk to Hank.

He takes a moment to himself, looks at another weasel-eyed kid – a regular, in this place. Another addict, that one artist’s kid – and whispers something that Hank can’t make out completely. All he really hears is _‘don’t tell-’_ and that’s all Hank needs to hear. He gets the gist of the warning there.

But after that, Connor falls quiet, and Hank really doesn't care to get the brat to speak again. He's already got an idea of how the kid's feeling - it's why he's handed him the case files, something for him to focus on while they get to the car.

Connor's shaking, and that means only one thing with an addict. Withdrawal.

Hank doesn't envy him. As much as he hates addicts, those who line their systems with red ice, he can't say that it brings him comfort to see them suffering through the withdrawal process. He wouldn't wish the feeling on anyone. And already, seeing it kick in, he knows that part of him is going to feel bad for the kid.

Which sucks, because really, Connor's a little shit and the only reason his brain is telling him to be sympathetic is because he's a kid. Not because he's necessarily a good person, or because he's trying, but because he's not even reached twenty yet, and his body is shaking and he's probably only going to end up feeling worse as this case progresses.

"Throw up in my car and I'll arrest you," Hank says, finally pointing towards the old Ford Crown Vic he'd bought years ago.

Connor doesn't smile much, but his lips tug up into something sardonic. Hank is expecting some sort of smartass comment from him, something witty from a smile like that, but there's nothing. Instead, Connor nods, pulls on the handle and lowers himself into the car without so much as a word.

Hank isn't sure what he hates more. The rude, smartass comments, or the fucking silence.

He decides that he’d much rather have the silence. It’s easier to fill silence, than to create it when someone’s deciding they want to be particularly wordy. Knights of the black death, a CD that’s loud not just in volume but by presence of all the _clashing_ of instruments, will help keep any conversation from being spurred.

As soon as he turns his key in the ignition, the music sparks to life. It clangs, and it sounds awful, but it’s also _angry_ and Hank can identify with angry and so as he sets the satnav to the address Connor has given him, he lets himself get lost in the emotion, lets it swirl around and fester.

Some days, it’s a battle between being angry or being sad, and the anger in this music helps to keep him from toeing the lines. No one’s ever solved a case by being _sad._

He’ll save the sadness for when he’s off work. Until then, he’s content with turning the music up even louder until he can feel the bass beneath his chair.

Then, he puts down the handbrake, and they head off to find Ortiz.

* * *

Ortiz’s hideout is… definitely not somewhere Hank would go to hideout and that’s putting it lightly.

The garbage cans are overflowing, bin bags piled beside them. Some are torn open, cats and other scavengers tearing through the plastic to get to any food left inside. From the scraps left on the lawn, it’s predominantly takeout boxes.

“You’re sure this is the place?” Hank says, wrinkling his nose. He’s not a clean freak by far, cleans only enough to keep things functional, but even he feels dirty looking at the rust that clings to the fence, the piles of mud and dog crap that hasn’t been cleaned by the neighbours, left to catch flies.

Connor sends him a look. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders arched as he curls in on himself. Pushing open the car door, he says, “He’s an addict, not a millionaire. Most hideouts suck. They’re only temporary.”

Most.

Hank, having seen Connor’s apartment, can’t imagine the man having a hideout in a place like this. Someone with a home that meticulous wouldn’t be able to trade it away for a dump like this.

Does Connor have a place he’d be able to lay low? Hank isn’t sure – but he’ll have to find out at some point, if only to make sure the kid can’t run and disappear with as much information from the DPD as possible.

“Let’s head inside then,” Hank says. He pushes his own door open, slams it shut behind him. Some days, he swears he can feel the car shake when he closes it, but still the glass windows remain in one piece. “Get this fucking over with.”

Connor, much to Hank’s chagrin, takes the lead, pushing forward without another word. He pushes past the fence, through a small hole there – apparently, making his way through the gate is too fucking sane for him – flakes of dust showering him in a layer of red.

Hank makes his way to the fence, pushes it open and watches as it falls from its hinges. It makes a thump against the dirt, dust mushrooming in a dark cloud. Hank pauses, waits for the dust to settle and curses the fact that trash-holes like these even exist.

“Fucking addicts,” Hank mutters under his breath, “can’t even deal with their own fucking gates. The fuck–”

He trails off, decides to ignore the stupid gate and make his way indoors instead. Connor has already pushed the door open, which – fuck, Hank doesn’t want to consider it breaking and entering when the lock is already broken, the door only kept shut by a pile of bricks on the floor.

Even squatters would turn their noses at a place like this.

“Ortiz!” Connor says, disappearing inside. He’s calling out, loud enough that Hank can hear him even as he makes his way across the garden. The grass, at least, isn’t overgrown, simply trampled into the dirt. “Ortiz, I know you’re he–”

He cuts off. Hank takes it as a sign to speed up ever so slightly. The sudden silence forces his gun out from its holster.

“Kid?” Hank calls, rushing forward. He almost reels back as he heads into the house, just from the smell of it. It’s like rotting food or sewage blocks. From the look of the interior, he’s sure there’s an element of both.

“Lieutenant.” Connor says now, strangled. It’s from a small room further in. Hank pushes his way in, surveying the layout, the possible exits, the likely blind spots he’ll come into contact with. “Lieutenant – get _in here.”_

Hank forces his way into the room.

“Oh,” He mutters, as he stops.

Connor’s eyes flicker to him for a second, before falling back to where he’d previously been staring. His face is ashen, drained of blood.

“No need for your gun,” The kid whispers. “He’s already…”

Hank returns his gun to its holster. There, slumped against the wall, blood trail above him, are the remains of what used to be Carlos Ortiz.

“Dead, Connor.” Hank says. “He’s dead.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but I'm here with the next chapter! The investigation properly begins!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments! Keep being awesome!

“There’s so much blood.”

It’s the first thing Connor actually says, after spending time wrapped up in his own head. Hank watches him from the corner of his eye. He’s not eager to try and comfort the kid, but there are words that need to be said, things that the kid needs to hear.

The trembling doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s just, Hank doesn’t know whether it’s from withdrawal, or fear. He isn’t sure _which_ he wants it to be. Withdrawal, so that at least he knows there won’t be any nightmares tonight because he led the kid to a crime scene? Or fear, because it leaves him understanding that Connor does have these terrible inconveniences named emotions.

Hank brings a hand up, lets it hang between them awkward, and then, lets it drop. He shrugs his shoulders, dips his head and says, “I’ll call it in.”

He reaches for his phone, presses his finger against the screen as he waits for the familiar numbers to show up. The screen lags – it’s an old model, he’s not paying countless dollars for a new one when this one works just as well, simply _slower –_ but finally, Jeffrey’s number is on the screen.

He presses call.

The ringing seems to bring Connor to action. The kid moves forward, spurred on by the droning, kneeling in front of Ortiz’s body. He turns, stares at Hank and says, “Do you have gloves?”

Jeffrey answers the phone. His voice is practically ignored as Hank pitches forward, readying to grab Connor by his collar, “Of course I don’t have gloves on me, you can’t go touching your _dead client.”_

“What’s this about a dead client?” Jeffrey says. His voice is tight on the other side of the line, as if someone has his vocal cords in a vice and he’s under threat of having them snap. “Hank?”

“Fuck,” Hank says. He juts a finger at Connor and says, “No touching the evidence. We’ve got to wait for forensics. The most you can do is look, okay?”

Connor dips his head. Hank isn’t sure if that’s a yes, but he decides to take it as one. He knows the guy might try worming his way out of orders, but things like this: Even Connor knows that if he breaks rules like this, he’ll be off the case in seconds.

Then, he finally focuses on Jeffrey’s voice. He says, “We’ve got another dead body. I need some forensics in here.”

* * *

His brain won’t-

Connor can’t… this is a dead body. He can’t figure out why someone would kill Ortiz. He’s an irritating man, yes, always had a bit of a temper but he hadn’t ever, truly done anything to warrant murder.

Except, things get skewed when Red Ice is in the middle of the situation. And Ortiz – Ortiz had been one of the most prolific users Connor has ever met. He wonders whether Ortiz had been high when he’d died.

Probably.

Connor shivers. He feels like his legs are going to drop beneath him as he kneels in front of the body, so he sits instead, cross-legged, staring at the corpse. Ortiz’s chest is covered in blood, red, spreading around him almost as if someone has thrown paint on him.

The fabric of his shirt – once a white polo – has been slashed. It looks like a knife had killed him, the slashes looking like the result of a knife piercing them over and over _and over and over._

Connor takes a moment to count. He’s not allowed to touch, so there’s no verifying, but he counts twenty-eight tears in the shirt.

_Twenty-eight stab wounds?_

A crime of passion then. It must be. There’s no way someone could have planned this, because it’s far too angry. Which means there’s only so many options for who could have done this: Someone Ortiz had trusted, or someone like Connor himself, who’d pried until they knew where Ortiz’s hideout was.

A narrow list, at least, to Connor’s knowledge.

“No, the kid is just fucking sat staring at the dead body.” – It’s the Lieutenant’s voice, but Connor drowns him out, lets his thoughts wash the now away and try to piece what had happened together instead. “It’s fucking creepy.”

Crimes of passion – more evidence left behind. Connor’s read enough mystery books to know that these crimes are typically crimes of circumstance. Of opportunity. The murder weapon was from here. Somewhere in this house, something is missing.

The possibility of it still being here, is also high.

But this isn’t what Connor is looking for. A murder weapon catches the murderer, yes, but that’s not what Connor wants to know. Not entirely. He wants to be able to play the scene out in his head, understand the whys, the how.

He feels a mixture of bile and coffee rising in his throat. He forces it back down, shudders at the burn against his throat. Maybe he should stop looking at the body for now, maybe the scent of dried blood, iron, against his nostrils is too much.

Connor nods his head. Places his hands on the floor to steady himself and moves to stand up.

He’s halfway up when something catches his eye. Covered in blood, trapped in Ortiz’s palm, is a small packet. A sachet. There’s too much blood to see what’s inside, but Connor is pretty sure he knows what it was. Red Ice.

This time when he shudders, it’s not because of revulsion.

He pushes himself up, slowly, tries to tear his attention away. Is he sweating? Connor feels almost like he is. He wipes at his face with his hand, but it changes nothing.

“I’m going to look around,” Connor says. Anderson stares at him for a few seconds, gives him that glare that reminds him not to touch anything, and then nods his head. A reluctant yes, but an agreement that Connor can search for anything of interest.

His heart rate seems to settle when he’s away from Ortiz’s body. Where before it had been a heavy thud against his ribcage, beating too fast to be efficient, now it’s slower. Still fast, but he doesn’t feel quite so dizzy.

Connor enters the kitchen, glances around. There’s blood on the wall. A chair that’s been kicked over – even more blood. So, it had started here? The fight between Ortiz and his killer?

His gaze roams the kitchen. On the island, there’s a knife missing from the rack. The murder had been from opportunity then, and it had begun in here, in the kitchen.

Connor moves forward, glances at the island. There are two cups there – plastic cups, half filled with cheap soda. Two. Ortiz must’ve had a guest over? Then, whoever that had been must have killed him… but why would a trusted friend try to…?

Connor wracks his mind. His information must be outdated somewhere? How could he have not expected something like this…?

Further along the island, there’s powder. A dark red, crushed. Trace amounts of Red Ice left over from when it’d been crushed. Ortiz had always smoked the drugs though, it makes no sense for him to have crushed the…

Except.

There is someone who had always been around Ortiz, a follower, someone not entirely trusted, but not seen as a threat. One of Ortiz’s playthings. Henry.

Henry had snorted Red Ice.

“He wouldn’t–” Connor shakes his head, moves closer to the island. A shudder runs through his body, finger moving closer to the powder on the counter. Only – _only a little._

“You alright in there, kid?”

Connor jumps. Pivots just in time to make eye contact with the Lieutenant as he passes into the kitchen. He wipes sweat into his trousers, swallows down guilt that he shouldn’t be feeling. He’s not even done anything.

 _But you wanted to,_ Connor thinks to himself, _which is worse._

“I’m fine,” Connor says. Then, as Anderson raises an eyebrow, “I – I want to find out who killed him, so until I know, I’m fine.”

“Right,” Anderson says. “Dispatch are sending forensics and more officers out, they’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

Connor nods. Then, he looks back at the kitchen counter, points towards it. He says, “Ortiz smoked his drugs, someone was here with him.”

Anderson squints. Then he moves forward, staring at the counter. He says, “Alright. You learn how he did the drugs when you followed him here?”

Connor gives him a look that can only explain how stupid this line of questioning is. Of course, he didn’t learn how Ortiz took Red Ice by following him – no self-respecting informant would follow someone for _that_ kind of information. It’s irrelevant.

Connor simply knows how Ortiz takes Red Ice, because he’s been with him taking it in the past.

“I did not,” Connor says, instead. “But he owns a pipe, and I’ve seen him with it before, so I’m pretty sure that he smokes Red Ice.”

Anderson crosses his arms. He says, “right.”

"So," he continues, ignoring the way the Lieutenant's lips seem to press together, the skin around his eyes tight. Tense - the Lieutenant won't have any leads to a suspect until forensics arrive. It must be irritating to know he has to wait. "If he smoked his drugs, then he must have been here taking them with someone else."

"Is there a phone around?" Anderson asks, "anything that can give us a lead. And you - do you have any names for me?"

Connor swallows. There's a sort of loyalty building in his chest and he almost doesn't want to say Henry's name. The man hadn't been dangerous, or rather, had never appeared as such. It's hard to align murder and Henry together in his mind. Still...

He lets out a sigh, lowering his gaze to the kitchen tiles, "I have an idea of someone, but it's not like him to-"

For a moment he is still. Anderson starts to speak, but he blocks the words out, dropping to his knees to stare at the tiles. The blood that's on the floor is old, it's dried and splattered against the floor, droplets - so much blood - but there's something about it that's not right.

"What the fuck Connor?" Anderson hisses.

"Look," Connor says, and points. "Look at this."

"It's fucking blood," Anderson mutters, but leans down to look at the dried blood anyway. For a moment, the Lieutenant says nothing. Then, he looks back up at Connor and squints. "What am I looking at Connor, this is just blood."

"The pattern," Connor says, eyes wide. He pauses, takes a moment to think the words through. "If you look at the other tiles on the floor where the blood has dried, you can see they're different."

Anderson seems to take a moment to consider it. He looks between the blood stains further away, the blood dried in a circle, little splashes outside, before turning back to the tile Connor is looking at. It looks not entirely unlike the tile has a rash, the blood died in little spots.

"Okay," Anderson says, "tell me what I'm looking at, Connor."

Connor has half the mind to say they're looking at blood, but he's pretty sure that'll just get him a cuff to the back of the head. It's not worth it. Instead, he leans forward, looking closer and says, "it's a sign that there was a fight."

He knows that there are other signs. The chair, the blood everywhere. But this is a sign that both parties were injured. It wasn't just Ortiz being attacked and trying to run - it's a sign that Ortiz had fought back. Or... that the killer had thought back.

"I know, I know," Connor continues, before Anderson can cut in. "What I mean is - well - uh, okay. When two different blood groups that have different antigens are mixed together, they clump together. It looks a little like a rash, or chicken pox. This here - both the killer and Ortiz fought. The killer was bleeding too."

Anderson takes a moment. He squints and says, "you can tell that from the way the blood... dried?"

"Yeah... Well, the blood reacted, you can _see_ that. The blood must have mixed." Connor bites his lip, looks up. He says, "That's a direct route to someone's DNA, you'll be able to link it to the killer."

A pause. Anderson says, "Only if they're in the system."

Connor pushes himself up, pulls at his collar and says, "I'm pretty sure the killer is in the system."

Surprisingly, Anderson doesn't push him for a name. Maybe he knows there's no point since they have the DNA. Maybe because he knows Connor doesn't necessarily want to say that it was probably Henry, someone who had always been... so kind.

Red ice had even warped him, Connor supposes.

"How long did you say, until the forensic team shows up?" Connor continues. "Twenty minutes?"

Anderson nods.

"I'm gonna continue looking around."

* * *

Since Connor’s pretty sure they’ve got the evidence they need to convict Ortiz’s killer – the murder weapon, the killer’s DNA – he leaves the kitchen behind. There’s more to the story here, and he wants to figure out what.

Because there’s no way that Connor can just _admit_ that Henry would kill someone over drugs. And Connor’s pretty certain the killer _is_ Henry. Something must have happened, something past drugs, to cause such a violent murder, to cause a fight between them both.

Connor isn’t sure what that is, but since Ortiz and Henry had taken Red Ice together many times, it must have been something else.

There must have been some sort of trigger.

Anderson seems like he’s got the living room covered, so Connor leaves it to him. He doesn’t really want to see the body anyway, not when Ortiz’s corpse has bony fingers clinging onto a sachet, drugs that he doesn’t want to spend time thinking about.

Another shudder.

There are two doors to the kitchen. The one that doesn’t lead into the living room leads into a small walkway. On the right, Connor knows, is a bathroom. He pokes his head around the door, tries to see if there’s anything present that could help the case.

Nothing.

The mirror is clear, the bathroom looks just the usual kind of messy. Urine stains the toilet bowl, and there’s a fine layer of dust over the cistern, but there’s nothing that seems out of the ordinary.

Not really.

Connor goes to turn and then: Then he notices it.

It’s small, really, but it’s almost like he’s been given a bullet, a smoking gun. A fleck of blood on the shower curtain. Connor reaches forward, rips the shower curtain open.

He stares. Bile starts to rise up his throat, but he swallows his disgust down, shaking his head.

“What the _fuck?”_ He whispers to himself, trying to process what he’s seeing.

Blood stains the tiles, dried, words melded together as the liquid has dripped down. They’re the words of a paranoid man, of someone who’s gone insane and decided to write everything down.

_Watching – can’t believe he – sorry – didn’t mean to didn’t - poisonpoisonpoison._

Connor takes a moment to try to figure it out. Then, he bites his lip.

“Lieutenant?” He calls, and maybe his voice cracks a bit, but this is – the sight of this is _horrifying,_ sends a shiver down his spine. For some reason, it sits worse with him than the dead body, then the blood dribbling everywhere.

Maybe because the sight of death is final, but the sight of _insanity_ is present tense, there is no healing, not from this, Connor’s never seen people recover from psychosis like this.

“Lieutenant?” He calls again, taking a step back. Anderson’s footsteps echo against the hallway, and then he’s stood beside him, staring at the same message.

The Lieutenant takes a moment to stare at the writing, crosses his arms – defensive, he’s disgusted too, but he’s been trained enough to hide it. Nothing like Connor, who wears his disgust on his sleeve – and then says, “Well, fuck.”

Well, fuck indeed.

“Is it just me,” Connor whispers after a second, “or does this look like a suicide note?”

Anderson swears under his breath. Then, slowly: “Yeah kid, it does.”

Connor closes his eyes, breathes out a sigh. If this is a potential suicide note, then it means Henry could already be dead. Or, that Henry’s planning on taking his own life. It means that Anderson is going to need a name, won’t be willing to wait for the DNA to bring back a name.

Time is of the essence, and they’re not just looking for a killer anymore, they’re looking for a _suicidal_ killer.

“Shit,” Connor breathes. And then, “Henry Powell. I think the killer is Henry Powell.”

Anderson jots the name down. He does an awkward job of trying to comfort him, lifting his hand and resting it on Connor’s shoulder for roughly two seconds, before withdrawing his hand as if it’s been burnt.

“I’ll phone the station, tell them to put out an alert on Powell,” he says. He offers Connor a side glance, contemplative and then adds, “You did good, kid.”

Connor doesn’t particularly feel like he’s done good.

He mutters something about finding more evidence and leaves the bloodstained bathroom behind.

* * *

There’s only one more place in the house to search: The attic.

Connor’s doesn’t think much of it at first, because he sees no need in searching through storage, all the things that Ortiz had thought to keep hidden away from his real house. Not when he’s seen it before, taken a peek to see if there’s anything interesting there.

But then he looks up yo the slab of wood that closes the attic’s entrance and there’s blood, faint, as if it’s been rubbed away. If he squints, tries to rewind the scrubbing in his mind, he can almost imagine the outline being something similar to a handprint.

A glance to the side, shows that the ladder from Connor’s last visit has been moved, disrupting the dust that had covered the corner in a fine layer.

He needs to go up.

Anderson is making a call, so Connor doesn’t bother telling him that he’s heading upstairs. Plus, if Henry really is up there, then going up alone will be much better, than bringing the _police._

He grabs one of the chairs that isn’t vital to the case – the only one without blood splattered across it – and places it beneath the attic’s entrance. Then, he climbs it, reaches up to the attic’s entrance and pushes against it. It opens with a muffled thud as Connor moves it to the side, giving himself just enough room to pull himself up.

He climbs the back of the chair as he does, hears it clatter against the floor as it unbalances.

Then, it’s just him, his own breathing, and the steady torchlight from his phone.

Connor takes a moment to glance around. Everything seems, at first glance, to be in the same positioning that it had been the last time he’d climbed up. There’s a mannequin left with only swimming trunks on, a curtain keeping the other storage boxes hidden.

There’s blood on this curtain too.

“Fuck,” Connor mutters, and then, he’s sneaking past the curtain, hoping that his steps will be soft enough not to disturb the floorboards. He doesn’t know why he needs to keep quiet now – they’d not been quiet when they were downstairs.

They’d foolishly assumed that they were alone.

Ortiz had been methodical with his storage, it seems. There’s an ample walkway, but it’s like a pathway. There’s only one way to reach the innermost area of the attic, and its to walk around the side of the room. Trying to walk through all the storage boxes would cause everything that’s been stacked on top of everything to fall down, cluttering the attic even more.

It’s both a blessing – since there’s no way anyone can sneak up on him – and a curse.

There’s more blood further in the attic, and Connor takes a moment to look at it. Specks of blood further in, but not at the outermost area of the attic? It’s as if Henry had grown sluggish further in the attic, as if he’d no longer seen the point in hiding his blood away.

Faux confidence, or just apathy?

Connor supresses a sigh and continues forward, turns the corner to find–

Henry’s body.

His eyes are open, and as Connor turns the flash light to look at him, he shudders to find that they’re blank. A horrified expression remains on his face, lips twisted in fear.

“Henry,” Connor says now, squatting down so he’s at the same height as the body. Henry sits, slumped against the wall. His hands loose in his lap. Blood has dried in a stream from one of his nostrils, and when Connor leans forward, _closer,_ he notices that blood has dried in his ears. “What happened to you?”

Connor bites his lip.

Then, he glances down.

Inside of Henry’s pocket, there’s a small packet. He knows what it’s filled with, knows that it’s Henry’s only drug of choice, the one that they share. It’s sealed shut, and Connor concludes that Ortiz and Henry must have bought from the same dealer, must have come straight there.

A packet for Ortiz. A packet for Henry. And a packet that they had shared downstairs in the kitchen.

Ice slithers up Connor’s spine, rattles against each vertebra, making him jump. He rubs his hands against the top of his arms, grits his teeth. Then, he closes his eyes, tries to ignore the call in his head.

He’d promised.

 _Fuck the promise,_ some part of him whispers, a cold, manic side to him.

Connor blinks, shudders and then, he reaches forward, his fingers brushing against the packet. He hesitates – is it really something he’d consider doing? Stealing from a–

A friend.

_A corpse._

“Connor!” Anderson’s voice calls up from below. Loud, bellowing, almost deafening in the silence. Connor jumps, falls back from where he’d been reaching and blinks. “Where the fuck have you gone?”

Connor takes a moment to collect himself.

“I’m up in the attic Lieutenant,” he calls back, closing his eyes. He runs a hand through his hair. “I found the killer. I found… I found _Henry.”_

Fuck.

Henry is dead. Ortiz is dead.

He leans forward, grabs the sachet and pushes it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

_“He’s dead too.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in a review. The author loves reviews.


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